


A Self-Fulfilling Prophecy

by umbrafix



Series: Life Bonds [3]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Episode: s01e04 Home, Eventual Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Lack of Communication, M/M, Morse becomes part of the family, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-08-12 01:24:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 67,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7914934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/umbrafix/pseuds/umbrafix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to the Threat of Falling, in which Thursday and Morse discovered they had a life bond. </p><p>In which Morse tries to adapt to being part of the Thursday family's lives, and miscommunications and misunderstandings abound. Set before, during and after the last Season 1 episode, 'Home.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Okay, so the first story of this series was set over a few weeks, during which Thursday and Morse discovered, struggled against, and then finally frolicked in their epic love for each other. I’ve always known there was no way I could write a sequel without having to wade through a lot of repercussions and angst, so it’s taken me a while to work up to it. I’m still pitching for the eventual happy ending, but it probably won’t look the way I originally pictured it. And it may not be happy for everyone. Urg, who knows…
> 
> (this assumes the extended, more angsty ending to the first fic)
> 
> Here we go!!!

The station hadn’t changed. Admittedly, Morse had only been away for two weeks, but everything else in his life had undergone such a profound shift that somehow he felt this should have too.

 

Jakes greeted him with a snide, “Oh look, here comes the mortally wounded,’ and Morse’s fingers absently pressed to his side before his mind made the connection. The fact that Jakes was giving him trouble over his wound rather than anything else… Bright must not have told anyone. Morse would have been getting a whole different world of grief from Jakes if he knew about the bond.

 

“Bright’s office, half an hour,” muttered Thursday as he passed Morse’s desk, and Morse ducked his head in acknowledgement.

 

The desk he usually used was badly in need of sorting. Someone else had obviously been making temporary use of it, because it had been almost completely cleared; all of the things he’d been working on stacked in a precarious tower in one corner. He uncovered the typewriter and dusted it off, and then started pulling out all of the unfinished paperwork which he’d abandoned in their unscheduled leave.

 

Ten minutes hadn’t gone by before Jakes wandered over, hands casually stuffed in his pockets and jacket rakishly half-open. “So, what was it then? Why you were off sick? It can’t just have been that scratch you got.”

 

Morse gave a tight-lipped shrug. “Nothing serious.”

 

Sharp eyes looked him up and down. “Well, I can see that. Fresh as a daisy, you are, or as much as a pasty thing like you ever can be.” Morse raised an eyebrow. “Been quiet around here with you and the Guv gone – he’s been on holiday,” Jakes added, as though Morse didn’t know.

 

“Oh?”

 

“Yeah. Bad time for you to be sick; more work for the rest of us.” Jakes eyed him for a moment, then turned away in apparent dismissal.

 

Morse sighed, looked up towards the ceiling for a moment, and then carried on his sorting.

 

A while later he was summoned when Bright’s door opened. “Morse.”

 

Bright’s office taken on unpleasant associations, Morse realised. Even though the man hadn’t been chief superintendent for long, Morse always seemed to be getting hauled over the coals in it. He couldn’t imagine this conversation was likely to be any more pleasant. There had been little chance for he and Thursday to discuss things again, and their one attempt had mostly led to them going in circles. His mouth drew into a pre-emptive grimace at the thought that undoubtedly he’d still have very little say in his future.

 

“Ah, Morse, Thursday, sit down.”

 

“Sir.”

 

Bright looked as though he wasn’t quite sure what to do with the two of them, now that they were there. He straightened his pencils, and then clasped his hands on the desk in front of him.

 

Morse sat in front of the desk, but Thursday stayed standing, moving to lean against the wall. It was probably to give the illusion of independence – and due to a healthy dose of stubbornness -  but it left a void of space next to Morse which he was acutely conscious of.

 

“Well,” Bright began. “We have a situation here. I know you didn’t want to discuss this further beforehand, Thursday, but it’s imperative that we deal with it now.”

 

“I agree,” Thursday replied.

 

“So.” Bright leaned forwards, his thin hands spread on the desk. “You have a bond. Assuming you wish to stay with the force…?” He glanced at Morse, who stared back coolly. “Hmm, yes. There will have to be significant changes and rules in place to maintain the proper distinction of rank. Discipline,” he barked, “is everything.”

 

“We’ve discussed this, sir,” Thursday started smoothly, but Bright interrupted almost immediately.

 

“Of course the easiest thing would be to transfer you. I can look into which stations might have space-”

 

Morse forced his tongue to unglue itself from the roof of his mouth. “It would probably be too far, sir. Especially early on.”

 

Bright hummed consideringly. “Well, we’ll have to separate you completely; no accusations of favouritism.”

 

“Actually there are studies which show that bonded couples working together-“

 

“ _No_  accusations of favouritism,” Bright repeated strongly.

 

“It seems to me,” Thursday finally weighed in, “that there’s no need to make any final decisions at this point. We can set up a plan for a few weeks, and take things as they come.”

 

“A trial period.” Bright quietened, pensive, and Morse got the impression he was thinking of it in an entirely different manner to the way Thursday had meant it. “What do you suggest then?”

 

“To be honest, sir, I think we should carry on exactly as we have been. Morse is on general duties, and he can help out on cases as and when required.”

 

Bright looked between the two of them, and then sighed. “Thursday-“

 

“Until anything else becomes an issue, then in my mind it isn’t an issue, sir,” Thursday said. Morse nodded when Bright glanced at him. “You can review it in a month, and see if there’s any cause to change things.”

 

“You can’t say that this won’t affect anything! I won’t have carrying on in the office, Thursday! This is exactly the reason I’ve been turning down the applications for a woman police officer.”

 

Morse inwardly rolled his eyes.

 

“Morse and I shall be the very picture of restraint, sir,” Thursday said dryly. “Which is more than I can say for some of the lads.”

 

Bright’s fingers twitched, and he scowled. “You realise of course how this may affect your future here?” he appealed to Morse, who stayed silent. “Well then. We’ll try it for a month. I’ve not informed the rest of the station; that will only make matters worse. Which means you’ll need to be discreet.” He eyed both of them beadily, as though not believing them capable. Mind you, based on the past few weeks, he wasn’t far wrong.

 

Bright rose to his feet, and Morse followed suit. Thursday pulled away from his spot next to the wall, and came to stand next to him. Morse found that he could feel Thursday’s presence as an almost tangible comfort, and wanted to lean towards him. Conscious, however, of Bright’s analysing gaze, he stood rigidly straight.

 

“Most inconvenient,” Bright muttered. “Still, nothing to be done about it. Dismissed.”

 

\---------

 

Morse had been given permission to drive Thursday to and from work, despite not being his bagman. Bright’s face had gone all pinched when he’d brought it up, Thursday had told Morse, but he’d accepted that it was the only sensible course of action.

 

The road outside Thursday’s house was dark and quiet as they idled their way down it, and Morse pulled up half on the pavement outside.

 

They sat quietly for a few minutes. Morse was conscious that Mrs Thursday had probably heard the car, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to open the door yet.

 

“We didn’t have much time to talk, this morning,” Thursday offered. His hand reached for Morse’s in the space between them, and his thumb grazed Morse’s knuckles.

 

“No,” Morse said.

 

“It was…” Thursday hesitated. “Last night…”

 

It had been their first night back at the Thursday house after their time away. It had been a little strained.

 

“It will take a while, I imagine, to work things out.”

 

Morse still wasn’t sure that they would work out. All of his doubts, his fears, about how things might go with Thursday’s family seemed to have been validated - or still have a high chance of occurring.

 

Mrs Thursday was a bedrock of strength, but she was hurting and afraid, and he could see it written in her face every moment. Sam was confused and resentful, and had apparently taken to spending most of his time at the house shut up in his room over the last week or so. Joan… Morse didn’t know quite what to make of Joan. She seemed to have instantly taken to treating him like a brother – a younger brother even – which was surprisingly pleasant but a bit bewildering.

 

And Thursday himself… For all that he’d been the one to convince Morse that this was worth trying, that it would all be fine, Morse could see him worrying that his family was crumbling.

 

“Aye, I imagine it will.” Thursday gave him a half-hearted smile, and squeezed his fingers gently. “Come on then.”

 

Win came out of the kitchen to greet them. “You’d better not be getting mud all over my carpet,” she said sternly to Thursday, who looked completely unrepentant. “See, Endeavour knows better. Some people around here were raised right.”

 

Thursday went over and kissed the top of her head, avoiding her hands which were dusty with flour. “Not my fault if you haven’t trained me right after all these years,” he said, and pulled back to smile down at her.

 

Morse waited for it to hurt, to feel the bitter pang of jealousy, but it didn’t come.  _Good_ , he thought.

 

“And you, love,” she said, turning to Morse. “How are you? How was your first day back?”

 

“Fine. Nothing very interesting – mainly catching up on reports.”

 

“Having them thrown at you, more like it,” Thursday said wryly. “All the boring tasks go to officers on general duties,” he added to Win. Looking back at Morse he smiled. “Sometimes I think it’s an effort to get you more familiar with that typewriter you keep attempting to murder.”

 

“Oi, you, leave the lad alone,” Win said in Morse’s defence.

 

“Oh, I see how it is,” Thursday said, half laughing. “I’ll just go and wash up.”

 

“Dinner in half an hour.”

 

Thursday disappeared up the stairs, and Morse felt sudden awkwardness descend upon them. Thankfully Mrs Thursday gave him a smile, and asked, “Want to help me make pudding? I’m a bit behind.”

 

She led him in to the kitchen, where he started peeling and slicing apples with great industry while she put the pastry she’d made into the fridge. “That needs to chill; I should have made it hours ago,” she fretted. “Let me check the stew.”

 

She told him about her day – planting bulbs for the spring, her visit to the neighbour’s, her shopping. Then she told him about Joan’s day, and what she knew of Sam’s, and by the time she’d reached the end of that she’d taken the pastry out again, rolled it and lined a tin with it, and Morse started layering the apples with raisins and cinnamon to make the filling.

 

“And how was your day?” she asked as she checked the potatoes.

 

He blinked, because she’d already asked him that when he came in. “Fine,” he said again, in case she’d forgotten.

 

She glanced over her shoulder at him though, and the look was expectant.

 

“It was a bit strange, being back,” he said slowly, and she hmmed encouragingly. “I’d missed it though.”

 

“Of course you did,” she said fondly, “you’re all alike.” Morse wondered if she meant policemen or men in general. “Who was there today?”

 

“Well, the usual people,” Morse replied, a bit stymied. “Jakes, of course, and Strange. I don’t usually talk much to the other constables. Bright. Chief Superintendent Bright, that is,” he stumbled.

 

“Why is that? That you don’t talk to the other constables?” she clarified at his confused silence.

 

He paused, and dropped a big blob of stuck together raisins into the middle of the dish. “I don’t know; I’ve never really thought about it.” He turned sideways, and leaned his hip against the counter. “We don’t have much in common, I suppose. And they’re a bit…“ He searched for a word.

 

“Rowdy?”

 

“I don’t know. It’s just all girls and football with them.”

 

“And not with you?”

 

“Certainly not football,” he said wryly. “And it always seemed… disrespectful. To talk about someone you liked as though they were…”

 

He was searching for words again, gazing at the kitchen tiling, when she turned and smiled softly at him. “You’re the sweetest thing, aren’t you?” she said, and he fought hard not to blush.

 

“Shall I put the top on?”

 

She favoured him with an amused look, and nodded. He carefully took the other half of the rolled out pastry and lay it on top of the pie, crimping it together around the edges. “There.”

 

“Very nice, love. We’ll have you making first class desserts in no time. Here, I’ve heated the oven, so you can put it right in. And call the others down for dinner will you?”

 

She opened the oven door so he could carefully maneuver the dish onto the shelf, and then he stuck his head out of the kitchen door and called loudly, “Dinner!”

 

“Just like Sam, you are,” she said fondly. He gave an apologetic shrug, and took the saucepan of potatoes to drain them. “So what about Strange, then? Jim, isn’t it?”

 

“Oh, yes. Jim Strange. What about him?”

 

“Well, why’s he different? You said you don’t really like any of the others, which I’m guessing means that you  _do_  like him.”

 

“I, uh, hadn’t really thought about it.” He pulled his head back from the cloud of steam. “He talks about police work, and about the city. Said he’d help me study for my Sergeant’s.” Morse thought for a moment, about why he spent time with Strange. “He  _asks_ ,” he said abruptly. “I think the others think I’m stuck up. But he just pushes on anyway, and he’s a friendly sort.”

 

“Who’s a friendly sort?” Thursday said from the door.

 

“Morse was just telling me about work, dear, and the people there.”

 

“He was?” Thursday sniffed the air appreciatively. “Something smells good. And you got Morse to talk to you? Willingly? About something other than his books or opera?”

 

“I’m not that bad,” Morse said dryly, and Thursday gave him a gentle smile. “I’m not,” he protested.

 

“I think you’re fine, love,” Win said staunchly. “Give me a hand now, and Fred, you go through.”

 

Morse wasn’t sure he’d ever had such a good meal in his life. After Win claimed him to be the main author of the apple pie, he got compliments from everyone – even a begrudging nod from Sam.

 

It was nice.

 

\----------

 

It was bedtime when the illusion of family and happiness broke down a little. Sam, who had made it civilly, if quietly, through supper, went up to his room almost immediately after, and Joan had gone out for the night with friends.

 

Which left Morse and Thursday and Win.

 

He sat with them in the living room for a while, reading a book. One ear on their quiet conversation over the noise of the wireless, enough to be able to give an absent reply if a question was directed his way. Mostly.

 

“Told you, didn’t I,” Thursday said with a chuckle, and Morse looked up to find them both watching him with amusement.

 

“Sorry, did I miss something?”

 

“Nothing important, Endeavour. I was just going to make some cocoa, would you like some?”

 

“Ah, no, thanks. Actually I think I’ll head up now.”

 

He gave them a slightly awkward smile and followed Mrs Thursday out of the room, then headed up the stairs. They’d put him in Win’s old sewing room. Though it had been cleared out, the space was still small, and the single mattress on the floor was difficult to fit two.

 

Mrs Thursday had been very apologetic that they didn’t have anything proper for him. It felt… temporary. It  _was_ temporary, he supposed, because none of them had any idea how things would work out yet. Buying a new bed frame would be expensive, and then everything might change again.

 

There had been so much change already.

 

He readied himself for bed, and lay reading with the small lamp on. It wasn’t half an hour before he heard their tread on the stair, and not long after that the door to his room creaked open.

 

“Alright, Morse?”

 

After marking his place in his book, Morse laid it aside and shifted over to one edge of the bed. Thursday shed his dressing gown, revealing vest and shorts, same as Morse.

 

“Oof,” he said as he lowered himself to the mattress, sliding under the blanket which Morse held up for him. “Fancy meeting you here.”

 

Morse found he couldn’t smile, no matter the absurdity of the conversation, and turned to switch off the small lamp on the floor beside the bed. He settled on his side, facing away from Thursday, and blinked to adjust to the darkness.

 

Thursday scooted up close behind him. “Come here, then,” he muttered, and slipped his arms around Morse. Thursday gave off a ferocious amount of heat, Morse had discovered in the last couple of weeks, but somehow it was pleasant, like basking in the sun. He allowed his weight to lull backwards against Thursday’s solid bulk, and felt the tension run out of his muscles.

 

“Hello there,” Thursday murmured.

 

And now a small smile crept involuntarily across Morse’s face, safely hidden in the darkness. He reached down and laid his hand over the top of Thursday’s where it had come to rest against his stomach, and trailed his fingertips slowly over each gnarled knuckle. Thursday hummed happily in his ear, and lazily pressed his erection against Morse’s arse.

 

The ever present  _want_  inside of him flashed hot, and Morse carefully breathed through it. There had been nothing intimate between them last night, and he strongly suspected there would be nothing of the kind tonight either. Even if Thursday didn’t so obviously feel awkward about it, Morse himself felt it would be completely inappropriate under Mrs Thursday’s roof. And it wasn’t that he wasn’t practiced at being quiet, in the way of all boys who’d had to share a dorm, but even so, what if someone heard?

 

“Sorry, lad,” Thursday said, voice quiet and apologetic. It must have been on his mind just as much. They’d have to work something out though; they couldn’t let it get desperate enough that they started touching each other at work again.

 

“We’ll figure it out,” Morse replied, as though the words were some kind of magical cure-all. As though Thursday had said them so many times that now they were imprinted on Morse’s brain.

 

A few soft kisses were pressed to the back of his head and neck, and then they lay still, breathing quietly together in the dark.

 

\----------------

 

He woke briefly, disoriented, at the shifting of the mattress under him. Thursday getting up, he realised. He kept his breathing as even as possible, and listened to every sound amplified by the darkness.

 

Thursday pulling on his robe, shuffling into his slippers. The door handle being pressed down, slowly, so slowly, to avoid making noise. The shushing noise of the door brushing over carpet as it opened, the loud creak of the floorboard just outside.

 

It was entirely possible that Thursday had just gone to the lavatory, of course, but Morse already knew that wasn’t true. He’d woken up the previous morning alone, not knowing when Thursday had left, and this time he’d caught him in the act.

 

They didn’t seem to be able to get to sleep without each other, but apparently Thursday had found that once they were asleep they would stay that way once separated. Or maybe that they could drift off again after waking.

 

Morse lay in the darkness, waiting to see if sleep would claim him again, but it didn’t come.

 

\--------------

 

The house was a melee the next morning, which by now Morse recognized as normal.

 

Win greeted him with a “Morning love, how did you sleep?” and a plate of toast, which he slipped through to the dining room with. There was a pot of tea on the table, and he poured a cup before helping himself to the butter and jam set out.

 

Which was worse, he wondered, as he listened to the bustle in the kitchen - as Sam and Joan ran in and out and Thursday thumped down the stairs with a ‘Have you seen my… ?’ Was it worse for Mrs Thursday to have her husband come in in the middle of the night, knowing where he’d been, presumably thinking he’d come fresh from screwing Morse, or would it be worse if he never came at all?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would blame a number of requests for angst for the general tone of this fic, but to be honest it was headed down that path at a run anyway ;)

They went to the pub that night. Most of the blokes from the station were there, but Morse sat with Thursday and Jakes. Strange had waved at him on the way in, and came over a while later when Thursday headed off.

 

“You alright now, matey?” he asked.

 

“Yes, fine.”

 

“You were down for a while! We missed you, around the station.”

 

Jakes snorted slightly, and took a puff of his cigarette. ”Skiving over a scratch,” he said.

 

“You didn’t see him after,” Strange protested immediately. “There was so much blood… And the Doc said-”

 

Morse cleared his throat, and Strange shrugged apologetically. “Another round?” the constable offered.

 

“Ta.”

 

Once Strange had headed off to the bar, Jakes looked at Morse out of the corner of his eye. “Told you you shouldn’t have been in, that night after you got stuck.” He hesitated for a moment, taking another quick puff, then, “Was it serious?”

 

Morse grimaced. “There was a… complication.”

 

“Always is, with you.” Jakes smirked at him, but this time it wasn’t unfriendly.

 

\------------------

 

He found he couldn’t get to sleep that night, even with Thursday lying by his side. The tick of the clock on the wall marked the passage of minute after minute, and with every small stir Morse waited for this to be the one where Thursday woke, where he left.

 

This time he didn’t let Thursday go in silence, saying a soft ‘Goodnight,’ as Thursday slipped out of the door. There was the slightest hesitation, and then Thursday continued on his way without saying anything.

 

It was just as well, perhaps. What could he possibly have said?

 

\------------------

 

The next day two different dams burst.

 

The first was on the way home, when Thursday asked if they could stop by somewhere on the way and Morse followed his directions without a word.

 

As he pulled into a secluded spot in the woods his suspicions were confirmed, and then there was nothing but sheer excitement as Thursday’s hands were on him the second he switched the headlights off.

  

The second major thing that happened was in response to Sam’s sullenness at supper. It wasn’t particularly worse than usual, but Thursday had apparently reached an invisible threshold and snapped.

 

“That’s enough out of you, with your snide comments,” he said harshly. “I know you’re hurting, but don’t take it out on the rest of us!

 

“Apologise to your mother. And to Morse.”

 

But Sam shook his head and slammed his knife and fork down on the table, pushing roughly past Morse in his chair on the way to the door. They finished their supper with slightly strained conversation, the gap at the table feeling incredibly large.

 

Thursday rose as Win started to gather the plates, saying “I’ll go and have a word.”

 

“No, I’ll go,” Morse said, the words out of his mouth before he’d known he was going to speak them. Thursday and Win exchanged a quick look, and Thursday nodded at him.

 

“Good idea,” said Mrs Thursday. “And don’t stand for any of his cheek. He knows better.”

 

There was no answer when Morse knocked at Sam’s bedroom door, so he waited a minute and knocked again. “Sam? It’s Morse.” Still nothing. Morse chewed his lip and looked back at the top of the stairs. He couldn’t give up now. “Will you talk to me? Even if it’s just to have a go.”

 

He stood another minute, unable to think of anything more convincing to offer, not wanting to have a one-sided conversation through the bedroom door. Luckily, the door opened just as he was drawing breath for another attempt.

 

Sam stared at him, visibly sulking. “What do you want?” he asked, and Morse was grateful that at least he wasn’t being openly hostile.

 

“Can I come in?”

 

Another few seconds of being stared down, and Sam moved reluctantly aside. Morse edged past him and into the room. The first thing that struck him was the sheer number of posters crammed on the walls. Sporting heroes. Bands. Enough that it was almost hard to make out the paint behind them.

 

“So?” Sam was still hovering near the door, arms crossed over his chest, toe kicking at the carpet.

 

With another quick glance around, Morse leaned against the side of the desk. “I thought maybe you could use a new audience?”

 

This surprised a look of confusion. “What?”

 

Morse shrugged. “Well, I’m guessing your mum and dad have already tried saying everything they can think of.” They stared at each other for a moment, and Morse struggled to find the right words. “Maybe this is something that you’re just never going to be alright with,” he said seriously. “But on the off chance that there’s something you want to say to me...”

 

“I don’t have anything to say to you.”

 

“No?” Morse tilted his head. “Downstairs it seemed as though you were restraining yourself from saying quite a lot.”

 

Sam pulled a face. Fidgeted. Uncrossed his arms; crossed them again. “What’s it to you, anyway?” he burst out, and it was so raw, so genuine that it made Morse’s heart hurt a little.

 

“Sam.” And then a moment later, when Sam wouldn’t stop avoiding his eyes. “Sam?”

 

“Oh alright, fine,” the boy grumbled. “Let’s talk.” He went to sit on his bed, tense like a coiled spring. “What do you want to say?”

 

Morse shrugged again. “I don’t really know, because I don’t know what you’re thinking. I can make guesses as to what you’re angry about, but they’d just be guesses.”

 

“I’m not angry,” Sam said, angrily.

 

“Why not?” Morse asked, and that seemed to bring him up short. “I said I could think of all sorts of reasons why you might be angry, I just don’t know which ones are right. But not angry at all, that’s impressive.”

 

“No it isn’t. Joan’s not angry. Mum’s not. Dad definitely isn’t.”

 

Morse contemplated where to start with that, scrubbing a hand through his shaggy hair. “ _I_ was angry,” he said eventually. He almost enjoyed Sam’s frankly disbelieving look. “When I found out.”

 

Sam tipped his head in consideration, but said only, “I’m not going to feel sorry for  _you_.”

 

“I didn’t mean you should. Your sister – maybe you’re right there, it’s a bit weird. Like she skipped straight past anger and into mourning, and now she’s determined to act as though everything’s normal.”

 

“It’s not normal,” Sam interjected, and Morse bobbed his head.

 

“No, it’s not.” He paused a second. “Your mum’s angry. Sad too, but definitely angry. She’s far too kind to take it out on anyone though, even on me. And your dad…”

 

Sam looked up at this, and the sheen in his eyes told Morse that this was where the true problem lay. “You think he didn’t fight it,” Morse realised. “They didn’t tell you that he fought against it for weeks – we both did – but that he wouldn’t have ever, ever thought of giving in to it if the alternative hadn’t been almost killing me.”

 

Sam was listening now, really listening.

 

“He thought about it, I think,” Morse said slowly. “But he’s too principled a man to screw over someone else, even if it meant hurting himself, hurting his family.”

 

He watched Sam digest that, and wondered why on earth they hadn’t told the two of them that Thursday _didn’t want this_. 

 

“But he cares more about you now,” Sam said eventually.

 

“No he doesn’t. It’s not like this came along and just replaced everything. He still loves all of you.”

 

Sam sat, stony faced and mute for a minute, before choking out, “How can he? How can he be with you, and still love mum? How could he do that to her?”

 

And Morse didn’t know how to answer that, because it was exactly the crux of the matter. They were all struggling with it.

 

“I don’t think he feels he has any choice,” he said slowly. “And when your mum suggested this-“ he saw Sam start in surprise “-he thought it was worth a try. None of us knows how it will work.”

 

He stood to leave, and was almost at the door when he heard a mumble behind him. “Sorry?” he asked, half turning.

 

“And if it doesn’t work?” Sam stared hard at the carpet. “Dad’s going to leave, isn’t he?”

 

“That’s the last thing he wants.”

 

Sam nodded. “I hear mum crying sometimes,” he said quietly just as Morse left, and Morse didn’t turn back.

 

\------------

 

 

Things were simultaneously more and less bearable after that. They settled into a routine. Sam was calmer now – still unhappy but not taking it out on anyone – and started going out with his friends again at their prompting.

 

Morse relaxed a bit more into their shared evenings in the living room; carving out a small space for himself and learning to treasure the presence of the family nearby. It felt like he was included, somehow, even when he wasn’t actively participating in the conversation.

 

For all that Joan was the nearest to his own age, he found her difficult to talk to. She reminded him a little of his own sister, though she was more outgoing, and far more quick to aim her wits at people. He’d learned the trick early on of prompting her to talk about things that interested her, but that only carried them so far, and she soon gave up on him as much more than an amusing dinner companion – seeming disappointed that he never wanted to go out to the cinema or with her friends for drinks.

 

Ironically, Win was the person in the house he spent the most time with. Perhaps due to a sense of obligation that he somehow compensate her for being in her home, perhaps because of dim memories of being useful to his own mother. Whenever she was cooking or gardening, or needed help with the shopping, he offered to help - and insisted when she tried to say she was fine and he shouldn’t worry himself.

 

He wasn’t much for the cooking, though he chopped and stirred where he was told, but the gardening he quite enjoyed. Not normally one to get his hands dirty, he found unexpected pleasure in burying his long fingers in the damp spring soil; to pushing the shovel in deeper with his foot as he turned a section of bedding for new planting. His skin seemed to drink in the feel of the sun warming his back, echoed by his awareness of Thursday’s gaze from the kitchen window.

 

And Win was lovely to talk to. She was Win, now, in his head at least, although he still wouldn’t call her anything but Mrs Thursday when referring to her. She wasn’t demanding anymore – didn’t push if his answer or tone suggested he’d rather not discuss something. She’d got used to his ways very quickly, which in turn made him open up a little without thinking about it.

 

He found himself telling her things that he hadn’t ever told Thursday. About his time at Oxford, about his home town and childhood friends – if never in great depth. A joke that Strange had got from the newspaper, the day before.

 

Maybe he never talked about those things with Thursday because they never really talked. Despite spending practically every hour of the day in reasonably close proximity, they rarely strayed into truly personal territory. At work he and Morse didn’t talk much, in an attempt to pass Bright’s ‘probation’ period. In the car to and from work it was small touches, and ‘ _come here_ ’ and ‘they’re having a devil of a time tracking down that car thief – are you on that?’ Dinners were full of broad familial conversation, and lying briefly together in the dark at night was somehow too precious to spoil with conversation.

 

But there were the rare moments at home alone. Morse had learned early on that if he suggested the pub of an evening Thursday was happy enough to go along, but the night would feel hollow and unsatisfying because both of them were conscious that touching in public was a bad idea. So he’d stopped pushing for that, and instead treasured the perhaps once a week when Win was with her knitting group or having lunch with a friend, and Sam and Joan were away too.  

 

Thursday would stretch himself out on the sofa with a low, pleased groan, and say ‘finally, a bit of quiet,’ and Morse would watch him with a feeling of contentment blooming cautiously in his stomach.

 

“What did you used to do, before I was here?” Morse asked one Saturday afternoon. “When everyone else was out?”

 

Thursday laced his fingers across his chest, and tracked Morse’s movement across the room with an easy eye. “Can hardly remember,” he said. “Seems so long ago.”

 

Morse snorted. “A month and a half.”

 

Thursday smiled, and said, “Like I said then. A long time ago.”

 

The mantelpiece was always clean when Morse ran his fingers along it as he did now; Win always kept the house in beautiful condition. He looked at Thursday’s reflection in the mirror on the wall behind it.  “What did you do, though?”

 

“Oh, I don’t know. Read the paper. Listened to the radio. Nice to do it with no one running in and out all the time.” He seemed to think a little, then added, “Sometimes I’d have a good soak in the bath; only time I’d ever get in there without someone bashing on the door every three seconds.”

 

The image of Thursday surrounded by bubbles brought a smile to Morse’s lips. “Now you don’t get any time alone at all, though,” he mused. Morse still did, retreating up to his room or going for a walk if the house was too noisy, and, while it wasn’t quite how he would have chosen it, at least it was something.

 

“Why would I want that?” Thursday asked, bemused. “When I said quiet, I didn’t mean alone. And you’re not the noisiest of people.”

 

After a minute Morse wandered over to the couch, and sat beside Thursday, leaning back and stretching out his legs alongside. Thursday automatically lifted his arm and placed it behind Morse, and they both contemplated the far wall.

 

“It’s funny,” Morse said. “I’m not usually much good at sitting around doing nothing.”

 

Thursday snorted. “I’ve seen you drift off plenty of times, lost in that big brain of yours.”

 

Morse shrugged, his shoulder bumping into Thursday. “Maybe. But that’s – I don’t chose to do that. Sometimes I just can’t stop thinking about things.” A kiss was pressed to the side of his head, and Morse closed his eyes and allowed himself to relax sideways. “But this is nice,” murmured Morse.

 

The puff of breath in Morse’s hair was the only indication of Thursday’s laugh, although Morse could hear the amusement in his voice a moment later. “That’s good to know.” Thursday’s hand cupped around his shoulder, thumb rubbing gently back and forth, and Morse focused intently on the feel of it as though he could capture it in his mind. “Morse,” and now Thursday’s voice was serious, “We’ve not – ah- talked about things for a bit.”

 

Not for lack of trying on Thursday’s part, admittedly. Morse could sense the stumbling attempts coming from a mile off, as Thursday’s conversation went stilted and he transparently tried to maneuver it around to the bond. It hadn’t taken much effort to become adept at avoiding such moments, at deflecting or distracting Thursday. Because Morse rather thought the core of such a conversation would be ‘are you alright?’ and Morse was already tired of convincing  _himself_ of that several times a day without having to deal with someone else.

 

“No,” he agreed now, quietly, and reached a hand over to hold Thursday’s free one. A sudden bout of honesty moved him to say, “I find it difficult to.”

 

“I hadn’t noticed,” Thursday replied dryly. “Me too, lad. Still, I…” he went quiet for a moment, then “I know you’ve found it hard, adjusting to living with all of us. Bit of a madhouse.”

 

“It’s just… different.”

 

“Hmm.” Thursday hesitated, then added, “You do know that you’re welcome here, don’t you Morse? You don’t have to sit up in your room, unless you want to, and you’re as free to leave your clutter about as the rest of us.”

 

Morse nodded, and then, feeling that something more was needed, “Everyone’s been very kind.” The words sounded trite and shallow on his lips, even though they were true.

 

Thursday sighed. “I feel as though we’re having two separate conversations here.”

 

“Are  _you_  alright?” Morse asked, trying to divert the conversation. “I mean, it’s a big change for you too.”

 

The muscles in Thursday’s arm tensed slightly behind his back, and then he was pulled in closer. “Course I am,” Thursday muttered into the top of his head. “It’s nice, having you here.”

 

Morse could find no way to phrase what he actually wanted to ask – whether this strange half existence was satisfying to Thursday, or if it was making him feel jagged and faded too. He pressed his lips against the hollow of Thursday’s throat instead, and tried to enjoy the small intimacies they could share for as long as he could grasp them.

 

He found he’d got used to the way things were.

 

Got used to the odd handjob in the car, and in alleys. Got used to retreating up to his room to play his records, and only at very specific times, although that never ceased to chafe.

 

Got used to only that short time with Thursday’s body cupped against him as they drifted off to sleep, and to waking up tired and unfulfilled in the morning as though the sleep he’d managed to grasp was an illusion.

 

And because it was a routine, it was hard to question.

 

Morse didn’t know how to ask for more time alone with Thursday - in any capacity - since that would mean directly taking his time away from someone else. He didn’t doubt that Thursday would make the effort, if he knew that Morse wanted it, but how could Morse  _ask_?

 

Perhaps the thing that burned the most was that Thursday seemed content. Happy with this bizarre half existence, while Morse still felt choked by guilt and a loneliness he couldn’t quite explain. It was the bond, he thought, deciding that this wasn’t quite enough. But obviously Thursday didn’t feel the same way.

 

Surely it was unsustainable, _surely_. Except they kept doing it, day after day, and there was no particular incident which was worth making a fuss over. Maybe things would get better. Maybe, one day, things would change.

 

\-----------------

 

Two months had passed since they went away to Cornwall, since they fully initiated the bond, and it had barely seemed to settle at all. Morse knew from his previous reading that this was likely due to a lack of skin contact, physical interaction and affection and, well,  _physical interaction and affection_.

 

Their time away together seemed a distant hazy dream now. A situation where Thursday had reached out and held his hand as they walked down the street. Where they had touched and held and caressed all the time.

 

It was impractical to think that would have happened back here, and he knew that it couldn’t be like that, but he still yearned for it. Thursday had promised him that they would make it work, that they would find time for the two of them, but the small scraps of it just made him even more keenly aware of its absence the rest of the time.

 

What made it worse was a constant awareness that his own hormones and brain chemistry could tip him into a spiral if he worried too much about the bond, or about the future. For him to be miserable or despair about the situation was to invite extremely serious consequences, and he certainly didn’t wish to inflict that on Thursday or DeBryn again.

 

So he tried to be relentlessly accepting of the way things were. To count his blessings. He had a bond with a wonderful, kind man. He got to live with a family who, at least to some degree, cared about him, and who he cared about in return. He still had his job, even if it seemed he was never called out on cases anymore. The bond hadn’t been broken, leaving him a wreck. He ran out of things to be thankful for after that, but they were big things. Really, he should be more than satisfied, and it wasn’t as though he could picture things being any other way.

 

And then, one night, he fell asleep before Thursday came to bed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Morse makes a lot of changes and decisions, all at once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been away on holiday - should be able to post more often again now ;)

_And then, one night, he fell asleep before Thursday came to bed._

 

Thursday didn’t mention it, and kept coming to his room every night. But to Morse it was a signal as clear as day, and he was in motion before he’d even had time to accept this new change. Once he’d made his decision, he didn’t question it, immediately starting to look for a flat. He’d given his previous place up, and though he’d been contributing to the Thursday household he’d still managed to save a bit, so it would be easier to put down a deposit.

 

Haste lowered his choices, but he found somewhere in a couple of days – a basement studio flat. Not much light, but liveable enough.

 

It would do.

 

Ironically Joan announced she was moving out on the same night that he signed with the landlord.

 

“Lizzie’s looking for a new housemate; I told her today I was interested,” she declared cheerfully. “There’s another girl there too – Alice. I’ve been out for drinks with her a few times. And I know the place; it’s perfect. She says I could move in in a fortnight! What do you think?

 

Morse wondered if she would still be moving out if he hadn’t moved in. Sometimes he thought of how different things might be, if not for this bond. The Thursday family would be happier. Morse might still be getting to go out on cases.

 

He didn’t mention his own decision, judging that it would only prompt an argument. Even if they all wanted him to go, they would still insist that he stay. No, far better to deal with it quietly.

 

So he came home at lunch time two days later, having obtained the keys to his new place the evening before. He’d packed everything up quickly that morning – because really, he had depressingly little to pack. His books were the only thing that would have taken up a lot of space, and he’d left his boxes of them with an old university friend when he moved in here, knowing that there wouldn’t be room for them.

 

He’d not called a cab yet, he didn’t want to sneak out like a thief, so he started slowly bringing his couple of boxes and bag of clothes to stand by the door. Then his record player, with his few favourite records.

 

There was a tidy pile there when Mrs Thursday returned from her morning out.

 

She came in carrying a bag from the butchers, and took a few steps before she spotted him perched on the stairs. “Endeavour?” And then, “Just let me put these away, love, I won’t be a minute.”

 

When she re-emerged from the kitchen, he knew the second she saw his pile of things behind the door, because she stopped dead in the hallway. He got to his feet, and slowly came to the bottom of the stairs.

 

“I wanted to say goodbye,” he said, shy, awkward, and saw her eyes fill with tears. “It’ll be fine,” he said immediately, “everything will be fine.”

 

“But you’re – you’re leaving,” she said, voice hushed and strained.

 

He nudged at the carpet with his toe. “I think we all know that this isn’t working,” he said ruefully. “And Thurs… well, he should be fine by himself now. So there’s no need for me to be here.”

 

“Love,” she said, choked up, “That’s not the only reason you’re here. We planned to do this even before we found out that you and Fred couldn’t sleep without-“

 

“I don’t think it’s helping anything, me being here,” he broke in. “I’ve – I’ve more than enjoyed your company, and under other circumstances… But not like this. And I don’t think it will make any difference, otherwise.”

 

She’d come forward, level with him, and there were tears streaking down her cheeks while his own were completely dry. He’d thought he’d be the one to cry at this leave taking, but he felt strangely cool and unaffected.

 

“But surely, at least for some things…” she trailed off, embarrassed, and after a moments blankness he realised she’d thought they’d been having sex all this time anyway. They hadn’t managed to spare her feelings at all.

 

“It won’t make any difference,” he repeated carefully. “But thank you, for caring.”

 

There was a furrow in her brow now, and this was where he could feel the argument coming. “I’m going to call a cab,’ he said quickly. “I just – I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye.”

 

“You’re really going,” she murmured again, shocked all over again, and he nodded. “Where will you go?”

 

“I’ve found a place, near the station. It’ll be fine,” he repeated.

 

He called the cab, turning down her repeated request to be the one to take him, and kissed her cheek in farewell.

 

\--------------

 

The thing was, he thought as he unpacked, that he needed to figure out how independent he could be. Thursday had mentioned to him once that he’d had friends in the army who went for months without seeing the other half of their pair – maybe Morse and Thursday could be like that.

 

After all, despite the bond showing little sign of settling – still being a swooping urgency in his stomach, chest and groin – they were now apparently able to get to sleep at night apart, so it must be adapting to the circumstances. Currently they were surviving on the odd, absent touch in the car, as well as short, frantic contact once or twice a week and an hour or two of holding each other every night.

 

Admittedly what Morse was doing would change a lot of that dynamic at once – possibly too much, he really should have made this gradual – and cut them down to occasional touches at work and probably Thursday occasionally coming over to fuck him whenever the urge got too strong. It wouldn’t be ideal, but it was much closer to how he’d originally thought this might work.

 

\---------------

 

He listened to his records for hours that night, almost not attempting sleep at all. He wondered how things had gone at the Thursday house, if Thursday had secretly been glad that Morse had taken this step without prompting. He slept fitfully for a couple of hours, and if he woke up more exhausted than when he started, at least it was  _quiet_.

 

No Win calling them all for breakfast, no fights over the bathroom, no Joan begging for a lift, no sly humour from Sam.

 

No Thursday, gruff and only half awake.

 

He made it into the station early, and knocked on Bright’s office five minutes after the superintendent arrived.

 

“Yes? Morse?”

 

“Good morning, sir. I wondered if I might speak with you?”

 

Bright considered him for a moment. “Of course. Come in, come in. Now, what can I do for you?”

 

Morse had stayed standing; he locked his hands behind his back and stood to attention. “I wanted to speak to you again regarding the situation we discussed a couple of months ago, sir.”

 

“Is Thursday-“ Bright peered around him, as though expecting the other man to materialize from thin air.

 

“I wanted to speak to  _you_ , sir.”

 

“Alright.” Bright gestured, license to go ahead.

 

“We’ve now gained a degree of greater independence in the bond, sir. And I wished to speak to you about my future at this station. I’ve performed to the best of my abilities in the last couple of months, but I’ve not been asked to help on any cases. In fact, I seem to have been deliberately not called upon. Understandable,” he added, seeing the frown on Bright’s face, “at first, but now I would be grateful for more opportunities.”

 

“Morse-“

 

“If I have no opportunity of advancement here, of anything but a desk job, then please tell me, sir. If there is no choice but for me to move to another station, as you mentioned before, then now that might be a possibility.” If not necessarily one which Morse had ever wanted to contemplate. And not being here might be an issue, because it would cut down on the small touches which he was currently relying on to get through the day.

 

The sudden fear that he was making a horrible mistake swept through him – what was he  _doing_ , moving out of the Thursday’s – but passed soon enough. He’d never know unless he tried, and being in a bond with someone who couldn’t put you first was proving to be torturous and draining. Since he couldn’t let that be the way he felt about it, since he had to accept it as it was or go mad, he was going to have to take steps to ensure he thought about it as little as possible.

 

Even if that meant being around Thursday as little as possible.

 

\-----------

 

Thursday swept in like a thunder cloud half an hour later, trailing a laconic Jakes who raised an eyebrow at Morse. Jakes didn’t have to say anything though, because Thursday’s growled “Morse. My office _. Now_ ,” said it all for him.

 

Thursday waited by the door, seemingly for the sole purpose of slamming it shut as soon as Morse was inside.

 

Morse stood beside Thursday’s desk in the same pose he’d held at Bright’s, and felt oddly as though he’d stepped back in time. He’d genuinely not been inside this office in almost the entire time they’d been back – they’d both been trying not to incite Bright’s suspicion. That seemed silly, now. What did it matter, anyway? They should have just fucked over Thursday’s desk every day, and damned the consequences.

 

Morse eyed the desk speculatively.

 

“You can imagine my surprise,” Thursday began, quietly, dangerously, “at arriving home last night – driven by Jakes, who said you were ill – to find my wife in tears and the rest of my family bewildered because you’d decided to move out  _without bloody telling me_.”

 

Morse stood still, stoic. He felt more himself in this moment than he had in months. “Sir.”

 

“What the hell, Morse? What happened? I wanted to find you last night, but we had no idea where you were! Where are you staying?” He began to pace. “Did someone say something to you?”

 

The distress in his voice was difficult to listen to, and Morse stirred uneasily for a moment before reminding himself of his resolve.

 

“I think that this is the best thing for everyone, sir,” he said evenly.

 

“Everyone? Really? Because it doesn’t feel like the best thing for me, and it sure as hell isn’t the best bloody thing for you. Not to mention how upset Win is – you know she thinks of you as a…”

 

He moved in close now, crowding Morse, and the familiar heat of him almost made Morse weaken. “What’s happened, lad?” Thursday said, and his voice dropped to the low register which always seemed to resonate in Morse’s chest. “Why can’t you tell me?”

 

“Nothing’s happened,” Morse said, and this time he caught Thursday’s eye and made an effort to impress the truth of it with his look. “I think it’s time to try something else, that’s all.”

 

“Something else being you living by yourself? Have I-“ and now his tone turned unsure “-have I done something to upset you? Made you unhappy?”

 

Morse counted to five in his head, and then reached out and carefully grasped Thursday’s hand. A pleasant sensation soothed him, akin to a cool breeze over heated flesh, and he allowed himself to revel in it for a minute. “I’m not unhappy,” he said. And he wasn’t, not really. Not compared to how things had been in the past. “I wanted to have my own space again.”

 

“Morse…” Thursday paused, and Morse could see him thinking as his eyes flicked back and forth. It was so easy to love him, Morse thought; as natural as breathing, now. “If it’s – if there’s things we need to change, we can work that out. You’ve been so quiet and easy going about everything, but you’re allowed to speak your corner, you know? With Joan moving out, you could have a bigger room to yourself?”

 

Morse just shook his head, strands of his fringe teasing at his eyes.

 

“Well, what then?” Thursday huffed. “Why can’t you tell me what’s wrong? Why is the first indication that I have that anything  _is_  wrong you moving out of the house?”

 

Morse gave a tight smile, and withdrew his hand. “Things will work out,” he said, the words tripping automatically over his tongue. “Why don’t you come round for a drink tomorrow night? I’ll give you the address.”

 

“Morse,” Thursday started, but Morse was out of the door and away.

 

\----------------------

 

He went for dinner that night with his old university tutor, Professor Lorimer, and his wife, Nina.

 

“It’s been a long time,” Lorimer marveled. “A long time. You look well, Morse, especially…”

 

“Especially given the last time you saw me?” Morse said wryly.

 

“Yes. I feared we had lost a great mind among us – and we did, from the university at least. And now you’re working with the police?”

 

They were seated in a pub by the river, though it was already getting too dark to see the view. It was cozy though – an old favourite of Morse’s. One he hadn’t been to in years, but hadn’t protested when Lorimer suggested it. This was worth trying too.

 

_Susan_ , he thought to himself, and felt nothing more than a momentary wistful pang. Then, out of some masochistic urge,  _Thursday_ , and a much harsher tug at his heart.

 

“Yes, that’s right. I was out at Carshall-Newtown for a while, and I moved here last summer. Well, more autumn, really.”

 

“It must be nice to be back,” Nina said, and he smiled and nodded. “Did you miss it? Oxford?”

 

“Yes,” he said, because any other answer would be needlessly complicated. “So, how’s university life?”

 

They talked over good, simple food and a few pints of ale, Lorimer catching him up on the goings on at his old college and the vagaries of academia in general.

 

“Have you ever thought about it?” Lorimer asked eventually. “Going back to it?”

 

“More and more,” Morse admitted. “A friend mentioned the idea to me a couple of months ago, and it got stuck in my head. No idea how I’d go about it though.”

 

Lorimer puffed himself up a bit. “I do have some influence, you know. Perhaps we could find a spot at Lonsdale for you?”

 

Morse hesitated. “I’m not sure if that would be such a good idea. Maybe it would be better to start over, somewhere new.”

 

“Not in Oxford?” Lorimer sounded stunned.

 

“No, I just meant another College. Lonsdale is… I’ll always have too many memories there, I think.”

 

“Yes, I see,” murmured Lorimer. “Pity, though. You were an excellent student.”

 

Nina nodded. “I remember him talking about you, when you left.” Gossiping, more like, Morse thought a little bitterly; but that was unfair – Lorimer had been kind to him, at the end. It was why Morse had chosen him to meet with, now.

 

“I could ask around for you,” Lorimer offered, and Morse smiled.

 

\-------------

 

Thursday arrived at eight o’clock the next night, and Morse could tell his opinion of Morse’s flat without him having to say a word. It prompted a slew of defensive thoughts, ranging from ‘not all of us have your salary,’ to ‘I don’t need more than this.’ Morse voiced none of them, waving Thursday towards the table and pouring him a glass of scotch.

 

Thursday didn’t sit, and didn’t take the glass when Morse proffered it.

 

“No, then?” said Morse, and put the glass aside.

 

“Morse, I think we should talk about-“

 

Morse kissed him.

 

\------------

 

Afterwards they lay staring up at the ceiling, breaths gradually slowing.

 

“At least this mattress is slightly better than the last one,” Thursday grumbled tamely, shifting slightly.

 

Morse let out half a laugh, and swung his legs round to sit on the edge of the bed. “Well, it’s not like you have to sleep on it!”

 

“Morse-“

 

“Stop,” Morse said curtly. “I want to try this. Don’t try and talk me out of it.”

 

“But this is exactly what you didn’t want, before,” Thursday said helplessly. “And I can’t bear the thought of you here, by yourself.”

 

“I  _like_  being by myself.” The dubious look didn’t dissipate from Thursday’s face, and Morse had no idea how to convey his own need for space and solitude. Even when it had just been the two of them, out in their cottage in Cornwall, he hadn’t quite known what to do with someone else _there_  all the time.

 

It was odd, now that he thought about it. After all, he and Susan had lived in each other’s pockets for a year, and he’d not felt this way then. But then he’d felt like he could be completely himself around her at the time – could play his records as loudly as he wanted, could spout ridiculous things to her and swing her around the room, could ignore her completely with his head in a book – and she wouldn’t judge him for it. Except it turned out she had been – judging him, that is – and eventually found him wanting. With Thursday, Morse felt like he was always waiting for the other shoe to drop. He wasn’t a great fan of psychological studies, but even he could see cause and effect.

 

But Thursday had a wonderful, perfect family. He had no need for Morse, beyond that which the bond engendered, and Morse didn’t fit anywhere in his life. Morse had struggled to come to terms with this uneven dynamic, had tried adapting in every way he could think of.

 

The only conclusion he had come to was that he shouldn’t try to adapt at all. He would go back to his old ways, and seek solace by himself.

 

And be fine, he repeated firmly in his head.

 

To save himself from any further conversation, he rolled and kissed Thursday again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter DeBryn, stage left. A whole chapter of him ;)

His secret, guilty delight at Thursday staying the night was matched only by the weary predictability of DeBryn’s phone call late the following afternoon.

 

“I won’t do you the insult of pretending we don’t both know why I’m really calling,” the pathologist began with a wry twist to his voice, “though you can tell Ellison to come by and pick up the results of the autopsy on his case.”

 

“I’ll let him know,” Morse said. There was a moment’s pause, and the bustle of the station seemed magnified in his ears. “Look, whatever-“

 

“How about a drink?” DeBryn said across his fumbling words. “Tonight? Or tomorrow? I’ve had a ghastly week, so I could use a few pints.”

 

Morse thought about it for a moment. DeBryn had been a godsend at various points during this whole mess, and possibly saved Morse’s life a time or two. On the other hand, he seemed to have a distressing tendency to meddle, and Morse had only just gotten things how he wanted them.

 

“Even if you just need a friendly ear,” DeBryn added into the silence, and the kindness in his voice was almost too much to bear.

 

“Thanks, but I don’t think I can make it.” Morse’s throat felt tight as he spoke the lie, and he could feel the weight of DeBryn’s concern on the other end of the phone. “I have, uh, things to-“

 

“Yes, I’m sure that you’re very busy,” the doctor agreed, and god, he was trying to make this  _easier_  for Morse.

 

The receiver was pressed so tightly against his ear that it was almost crushing it, and Morse pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Alright,” he said suddenly, before he could change his mind. “Tonight, if you’re free. The Goose and Fox?”

 

“Alright,” DeBryn said slowly. “I’ll see you there around seven, shall I?”

 

Which left Morse three hours to regret his decision.

 

\----------------

 

The pub was quiet when he arrived – not unusual for a Wednesday evening though. Chalked up on the board was a notice proudly proclaiming ‘Best pub on the Thames.’

 

He ordered two pints of ale, and stood at the bar while he belabored over his choice of seat. His preference was against the wall in the corner, secluded, but he might be a good deal more safe, conversationally at least, if he sat in the middle of the pub next to the few other punters. DeBryn wasn’t indiscreet, after all.

 

He set the two pints down at a small, slightly wobbly table, and gave a tight smile to the two elderly gentlemen sitting at the next table over. They eyed him with mild curiosity for a moment, and then went back to their game of backgammon.

 

Two sips into his pint, and a gust of cold air blew through the door as DeBryn pushed it open. In a few seconds the pathologist had taken in the room, and his eyes brightened as he saw Morse. “Good evening,” he said as he approached, chafing his hands together for warmth.

 

Morse nodded in response, and nudged the other pint across the table.

 

“Ah, thank you. Just what I needed.” He matched word to deed, lifting the glass and downing a third of it before he even sat down. It wasn’t what Morse had expected from DeBryn, although he’d never seen him drink anything but brandy before, and his eyes lingered uncertainly until DeBryn caught him looking.

 

“I wasn’t sure if you liked ale,” he admitted, and DeBryn gave a quick smile.

 

“Oh yes,” and he paused to shrug out of his jacket, “though I’ll admit it’s not my favourite.”

 

Morse nodded and looked down at the table as he drank in silence. He was sulking, he realized belatedly, feeling rather as though he’d been summoned here for a scolding by an understanding uncle.

 

“I haven’t seen much of you, the last couple of months,” DeBryn said at last. His tone was companionable, and he was obviously trying to invite Morse’s confidence.

 

“No,” Morse said shortly, and took another mouthful of ale. “I’ve been on deskwork, mainly. There haven’t been many big cases through – something at a factory, I think, during the royal visit?” He tried hard to keep his words disinterested, but it had  _burned_  that he hadn’t been allowed to do anything during the investigation.

 

“Yes, that’s right.” DeBryn seemed to hesitate. “Still, it doesn’t always have to be because of a murder.”

 

Morse’s lips twitched in slight annoyance, and he kept his eyes fixed on the grain of the table. It wasn’t that he didn’t like DeBryn. It was that the problems with the bond had given the man reason to insert his way into Morse’s life with a closeness that Morse didn’t usually permit – that he wasn’t comfortable with. And yet he hardly knew DeBryn at all. His first instinct, after the embarrassment of being looked after like a child when he’d been ill at DeBryn’s house, had been to close off and not see the man at all.

 

That had been… unfair to DeBryn. 

 

“No,” he said slowly. “You’ll have to forgive me, things have been rather busy with… adjusting.”

 

“Mmm.” Morse saw DeBryn take a long sip out of the corner of his eye. “And how are you?”

 

“I’m-“  _Fine_  hung on the edge of his lips. “Well enough,” he finished instead. “And you?”

 

“Oh, yes, good. I’ve been having a clash with the head of cardiology - it’s led to days of aggravation. I don’t claim to know his business better than he does, so why he thinks he can try and interfere with my procedures…”

 

Morse let the soothing rhythm of DeBryn’s voice settle over him, and nodded where appropriate as he steadily made his way through his pint.

 

“It’s nice to know that you agree with me, even though I suspect you don’t know about what,” DeBryn finally said, and Morse darted a half-guilty glance upwards at the wry comment.

 

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I’ve just been thinking about-“ He cut himself off, and then regretted doing so a moment later at the resigned look DeBryn gave him.

 

“Another?” the doctor asked, and Morse nodded and handed over his glass.

 

The urge to leave came while DeBryn was standing at the bar. Morse could get up and be out of there in five strides, and really, would either of them be worse off? Morse didn’t want to have this conversation, and he couldn’t imagine DeBryn did either – he probably just felt obligated to since Thursday had obviously called him.

 

On the other hand, Thursday had tried to get him to go round for dinner tonight, and it had been nice to have the excuse of going out for a drink.

 

The clink of glasses heralded DeBryn’s return while Morse was still slowly turning things round in his head, and he smiled an automatic smile as he gave his thanks.

 

Alright then. He was here, he might as well make the best of it.

 

“I’ve been thinking about what to do next,” he said into his pint. “Whether to stay at Cowley, or go elsewhere. I had a chat with Bright, and he won’t block my chances for promotion, but he’s not exactly enthused at the idea of putting me forward either.” He nursed his drink for a while, glad that DeBryn hadn’t said anything in response. “Or I could go back to my studies. Thursday mentioned it, ages ago, and I thought he was mad. But it has some appeal. I don’t know what else I’d do. And, to be honest, the idea of working at another police station…”

 

DeBryn hummed thoughtfully.

 

“Not sure what I’d do if I went back to university either, of course. Teach, I suppose. I don’t think I had much of a plan, the first time around.”

 

“Would you enjoy teaching?”

 

“I suppose. I’ve been thinking about it,” Morse admitted.

 

“Morse, I-“

 

“I don’t know what he said to you, but it’s really not anyone else’s business,” Morse blurted.

 

That stopped DeBryn in his tracks for a moment, but didn’t seem to provoke annoyance. “He said he was worried about you,” the pathologist replied finally, and Morse examined his face closely for signs of falsehood.

 

“That’s all?” Morse asked, acutely aware of the slight strain in his voice.

 

DeBryn nodded. “I take it from this that he has cause to be, then?”

 

Morse fought not to say something unkind – that Thursday couldn’t keep running to DeBryn every time he and Morse had a disagreement or problem. After all, Morse understood why Thursday was worried. Morse had been thinking all along about the problems in the situation, formulating what solution he could, and Thursday was just being hit with the end result and trying desperately to catch up.

 

He should have talked to Thursday more about it.

 

“We don’t seem to understand each other very well sometimes,” Morse said aloud.

 

DeBryn eyed him curiously. “Perhaps more time explaining?”

 

“No, that’s exactly the problem. I don’t want to try to explain, because he just gets this look on his face, and he can’t understand my point of view at all.”

 

“Morse,” DeBryn said carefully, “why don’t you tell me what’s happened?”

 

Morse realized only then that his breath was coming slightly too fast; that he was leaning forward with his hands spread wide on the table. He pulled them back, retracted back in on himself and let out a great breath as he glanced to the side.

 

“I think I’ve had enough,” he said coolly, and uncoiled himself to stand. He didn’t take more than a step though, before he made himself look around, before he pushed himself to say, “Maybe tomorrow?”

 

The short smile DeBryn gave him didn’t hide the relief in his eyes.

 

\---------------------

 

One of the things that had been puzzling Morse was why DeBryn cared. Thursday cared because he had to, Mrs Thursday cared because she was too lovely not to, but DeBryn? He’d been pestering Morse about this – about his health, his feelings – from the get-go, and it occasionally felt a little interfering and overwhelming.

 

Tonight DeBryn had arrived at the pub before him, and, as Morse watched him polish his glasses, unaware of Morse’s presence, Morse wondered if it had really been so long since he’d had a friend.

 

If that was what this was – a budding attempt at a friendship – then so far it felt uncomfortably one sided. Morse certainly hadn’t been keeping up his end of it.

 

After the usual pleasantries, Morse led with “I hope your mother is well?” He remembered DeBryn had been concerned over her while Morse was recovering at his house; Morse had got the impression she wasn’t in good health.

 

“Yes, very well at the moment, thank you. She keeps trying to get me to go along for her bridge nights, and I have to keep coming up with tactful excuses.”

 

“You’re not a fan of cards?”

 

“It’s less about the cards, and more about the predatory gaze of half a dozen seventy-year-old women with unmarried daughters or granddaughters or nieces – well, you get the picture.”

 

Indeed, Morse had a very clear image of DeBryn surrounded by a crowd of blue rinse ladies sizing up his potential. His smile was completely unfeigned. “Terrifying,” he said mock-sincerely, and DeBryn’s eyes twinkled slightly over his glasses.

 

“No one trying to marry you off then?” he asked Morse, who shook his head.

 

“No. I mean, my family all know about the bond with Susan, and I think after that they all assumed… Well. My sister tried talking me into a few dates a while afterwards; she thought it might help I think. But I just wasn’t interested at all.”

 

“And they don’t know that’s changed,” DeBryn intuited.

 

Morse sighed, and scratched a nail over the uneven scratches on the wooden table. “No. I wouldn’t know how to tell them, especially since it’s… it would just be another disappointment.” And his flippancy had more than a tinge of bitterness.

 

“Hmm. Difficult situation.”

 

A few minutes went by in which they sat and drank in silence, and Morse gradually relaxed as he realized DeBryn wasn’t going to press him. He turned in his seat a little to face the other side of the pub, where a group of three men were engrossed in a game of darts.

 

“I moved out,” he said eventually, once half of his glass was gone. DeBryn’s look was sharp but not surprised. “All that playing at happy families while everyone was miserable – I couldn’t do it anymore.”

 

“Do you think it will help?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

It was the fourth day now, since he’d gathered his things and left the house. Frequently he found himself wondering how Mrs Thursday was doing; hoping she wasn’t still upset by his leaving. He found he missed Joan’s cheerful smile, Sam rolling his eyes, Win patting his hand. Of course he missed sitting near Thursday in the evening, but then that wasn’t a surprise.

 

“Maybe they’ll be happier, at least,” he added.

 

“And you?” DeBryn asked slowly.

 

Morse was well aware of what the pathologist was circling around, and gave him a grim smile. “I remember what we talked about,” he said. “Nothing’s going wrong, and it’s not bad. Everything’s fine, as good as it can be, anyway. Being away will help, I think.”

 

“Morse, I know I said it was important that you didn’t over-worry about the bond or the future, that it could cause a relapse, but I didn’t mean you should repress your feelings entirely.”

 

“I’m not,” and then, at DeBryn’s glance of disbelief, “I’m not. Really. I’m just accepting things the way they are, and trying to make the best of them.”

 

DeBryn stared at him for a long moment, and then downed the remaining third of his pint in one go. “Somehow that’s the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard,” he muttered.

 

A spark of annoyance lit in Morse’s chest. “It’s almost like you want me to be upset.”

 

“No, I – of course I don’t want you to be upset. It’s just – Morse, you can’t tell me that you aren’t even a little unhappy. You’ve just told me you’ve moved out – that you’re not living with Thursday anymore. I presume you wouldn’t have taken that step unless you felt continuing was completely untenable. And your new situation – how often are you even going to see him?”

 

“I see him at work,” Morse said stubbornly. “And I’ll see him whenever he comes over. No – don’t say it. It’ll have to be enough.”

 

“But, Morse…” DeBryn said unhappily, and for just a moment Morse let himself see DeBryn’s concern not as something to defend himself against, but something which just  _was_.

 

He sighed, and tried to let go of all the tension hunching his shoulders. “Of course I’m unhappy,” he said quietly, and didn’t meet DeBryn’s eyes. He focused on picking at the peeling coaster in front of him. “But it’s not going to get any worse, and there’s no hope of it getting better. The only thing to do now is to figure out the best way of living with it. I tried it their way, now I’m going to try it my way.”

 

DeBryn echoed his sigh. “I don’t suppose you’ve talked to Thursday about any of this?”

 

“What could he say? Besides, he’s the only one who does seem happy with the way things are, aside from worrying about his family.”

 

“And the bond?”

 

Morse shrugged. “Not much sign of it settling on my side, though at least now I can sleep sometimes. Without him, I mean,” he added painfully. “But maybe it’s better for him. I might be more sensitive to anything with the bond, you said.”

 

DeBryn considered him. “You once told me that you found it irritating that Thursday was taking decisions for the both of you, without talking them over with you first.”

 

He didn’t have to say anything further; Morse could see his point. “It’s not the same,” Morse said stiffly.

 

“Isn’t it?”

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a murder gets in the way of Thursday and Morse having a conversation, and Thursday's protective instincts do him no favours with Morse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This now merges with the episode 'Home' (1.4) - all my usual disclaimers for not remembering the episode with 100% clarity apply - please let me know if you spot any mistakes. It assumes familiarity with the episode in question.

Morse strolled into Thursday’s office the next morning without allowing himself to dwell on it any further. Every possible direction the conversation could take had been sketched out in his brain a hundred times during the night, and none of it had left him any more prepared for confronting Thursday.

 

He hovered a few feet away while Thursday slowly put down the file he was working on, and then forced a more casual stance – hands tucked in his pockets.

 

“I wanted to apologise,” he said formally, “for not talking it through with you beforehand. That was unfair of me, and I only did it to make it easier on myself.”

 

Thursday stared at him in shock. “Bloody hell, lad,” he muttered finally. “Close the door.”

 

It took only a quick step backwards to catch the edge of the door and swing it shut, then Morse resumed his position. “And stop looking like you’re waiting for me to yell at you,” Thursday said. “Come here, for Christ’s sake. You couldn’t have waited until after I had my cup of tea?”

 

Morse glanced back at the door, and said, “Do you want me to-“

 

“No, no, I was… Nevermind. What’s this all about then?”

 

For all that the question was rhetorical, Morse answered anyway. “I’d already made up my mind, and I didn’t want to argue. That’s why I didn’t tell you. But I – I know that must have been… It wasn’t right of me. So I’m sorry.”

 

Thursday was still eyeing him a little like an unexploded bomb. “Will you talk to me now then?”

 

Morse still didn’t think that would help anything, but… “Tonight?”

 

“Alright. I’ll come over, shall I?”

 

A small sweet feeling stirred in Morse, and he ruthlessly crushed it. “That would be fine,” he said evenly.

 

\-----------------------

 

Except that of course Morse got called on to cover a late shift, and could find no good reason to refuse, and was finally,  _finally_ , sent out to a crime scene. Bright had apparently taken the subtle threat of Morse’s resignation to heart, as he was called out to the hit and run – a man Morse suspected to be a Don, based on the contents of briefcase found nearby.

 

It was strangely thrilling, to be out of the station and  _involved_  again, to be searching for clues. Perhaps he would miss this, after all, if he went back to academic life.

 

He picked Thursday up in the morning. Despite the fact that it had only been a week since he’d been doing this every day, sitting outside idling in the car felt different and wrong. Perhaps because he wasn’t coming from inside, with Thursday, but waiting with his hands tapping the wheel as he watched the wind whisk at the treetops. He could have knocked, of course. Could have waited inside the door – inside the dining room, even, because there was no way Mrs Thursday would have let him away without breakfast or a cup of tea. But that would have been worse, somehow, than to separate himself completely.

 

When Thursday emerged, keen eyes fixing immediately on Morse behind the steering wheel, he was followed by Joan. “Buses are late; said we’d drop her.” Brisk, business-like, not looking Morse in the eye. Was he offended, Morse wondered, at the change of plans from last night? Perhaps he thought Morse had dodged the conversation on purpose?

 

Apart from the usual pleasantries the car was silent, but the second he and Joan were alone in it when Thursday stepped out she shuffled into the middle of the backseat and put a hand on his shoulder with a quick tug. “Haven’t seen you about for a while?”

 

“No,” he muttered, and would have left it, but he owed more to her than that. “I, ah, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, before. Any of you.”

 

She sat back in her seat again, and they looked at each other in the car mirror. “Been strange – you being gone.”

 

He looked down; ran his fingers along the bottom of the steering wheel. “I’m sure everyone will adjust again.”

 

“I suppose. Even Sam’s not right about it.”

 

“I’d have thought he’d be happy,” he said wryly.

 

“What do you know?” she asked, and her voice was unexpected sharp. Looking at her reflection again, he saw her face crumple a little as though she was holding back tears, and was completely bewildered.

 

“Joan?”

 

Joan, who had been so completely alright with everything. Determinedly so, perhaps.

 

“Everything’s  _ruined_ , now,” she said abruptly.

 

“I don’t-“

 

“What were you thinking? Don’t you have any idea-“

 

The car door opened, and both of their heads swung around in comic dismay at Thursday’s entrance. “Any idea about what?” Thursday asked with a grumble as he sat down.

 

“Work, if you must know,” Joan said primly. “Only he’s the same as you; it’s like trying to get blood out of a stone.”

 

“Quite right,” said Thursday, but his eyes were on Morse as though he didn’t believe a word of it.

 

\-------------------

 

After dropping Thursday off at the station, Morse made his way to see DeBryn at the morgue.

  

“Could have been a glancing blow, I suppose,” DeBryn concluded, and though Morse nodded his mind was already racing with possibilities. He was laughed at, in the station, for always trying to make more of things than was there, but something about this case didn’t rest easy.

 

“How are you doing?” DeBryn asked casually as he turned to leave, and Morse paused, wrong footed. He didn’t like the intrusion of the personal into this morbid, clinical space, but he really should have grown used to it from DeBryn by now.

 

“Good. It’s good to be on a case again.”

 

“Mmm,” DeBryn said, but nothing further, turning away to tidy his instruments.

 

His restraint prodded at Morse. “I saw Joan this morning.”

 

“Oh yes? How was she?”

 

Morse vacillated for a moment, eyes flitting over the shine of the metal tables. Eventually they fixed on a point across the room, and he said “She said everything was ruined. She made it sound like – like a bad thing that I’d left. But I don’t see how this could have made it any worse.”

 

DeBryn was looking at him now, Morse could feel it. “You’d become quite close to them all,” the pathologist suggested neutrally.

 

“Not really,” Morse responded automatically. Then, “Well, yes, I suppose.” He’d come to know a lot about their lives – Win and Sam and Joan - their hopes and dreams and friends. Despite their curiosity and questions though, he’d never really opened up to them, not properly - never felt they had any reason to care about him. Certainly never any reason to think they would genuinely miss him when he left. And what Joan had said wasn’t about them missing him... “I can’t understand how this could have made things worse,” he repeated.

 

“Well, I can’t imagine the Detective Inspector taking this well.” When Morse looked askance at him, DeBryn added, “Assuming he isn’t dealing well with the change, he might not be a pleasure to live with at the moment.”

 

Morse’s brow creased in a frown as he thought that over. Thursday, however annoyed at him, would never take that out on his family. Morse was sure of it. But admittedly if he was generally unhappy, or just feeling the effects of separation, then that would affect his behaviour.

 

“We couldn’t go on as we were before,” he said, a note of defiance creeping into his voice.

 

“No?” asked DeBryn.

 

“Well, obviously Thursday could,” Morse said, and the edge in his tone surprised him. “I don’t know why I said that,” he added after a few seconds, “I should get back to the station.”

 

\-----------------

 

He updated Thursday on the case – the way he would have earlier had Joan not been in the car with them. Thursday’s scepticism over what Morse believed a perfectly logical conclusion – that their victim was Professor Coke-Norris – rubbed Morse the wrong way.

 

“Alright then, get on,” Thursday said, and Morse bit back a poorly thought out rejoinder. Thursday hadn’t said he didn’t believe Morse, after all, just that they had no concrete evidence yet. Which was reasonable – Thursday was just being cautious, he told himself, and the tightness in his chest eased. He gave a brisk nod, and stood to leave. “Oh, the results came in, from the range,” Thursday mentioned overly-casually. “Where’d you learn to shoot like that, then?”

 

A thrum of anxiety shot though Morse, an echo of old pain and disappointment. “In the army, I suppose,” he said evenly.

 

Thursday tilted his pipe slightly, his eyes not leaving Morse’s. “Thought you were in signals,” he rumbled.

 

Caught out, Morse drew breath to speak but no words came, and he stood in an awkward silence for a moment. He’d not talked much to Thursday about his time in the army, but then the same was true in reverse. He’d not talked much to Thursday about his family either though; whenever Thursday’s family had been reminiscing or asking about his relatives he’d always deflected the conversation away from himself.

 

It wasn’t as though his family was terrible, not compared to some of the things he’d seen as a policeman. But he’d rather not dwell on his memories, or have to deal with the people involved again, either.

 

“Morse?”

 

It had been so many years ago, but he could still remember his father’s hands adjusting his on the gun. Drilling him mercilessly, cold and hard. ‘Again,’ he’d say, no word of praise. ‘Again.’ Telling him that if he couldn’t do this he was worthless, less than worthless, that no son of his-

 

“Morse?”

 

He blinked, and took in Thursday’s look of poorly-disguised concern, the slack grip of his fingers about his pipe.

 

“Sorry,” he said with a grimace, voice hoarse as though after a sleepless night.

 

Thursday just watched him for a moment, and Morse could see the moment he decided to let it alone. “Mr Bright’s very keen, he was asking after your Sergeant’s.”

 

Morse nodded along for a moment before the words hit him, and he raised his eyebrows in astonishment. “But I thought…”

 

“Thought what, lad?” Thursday gestured for him to sit, but Morse gave a short shake of his head. “Thought we’d leave you in the wind? No, I said I’d see you through your Sergeant’s, if it was what you wanted. I know it’s taken longer than we planned, but-”

 

“No,” Morse interrupted, “No, that’s good.” His talk with Bright hadn’t been that positive, the week before. Thursday must have leaned on him. It made Morse ashamed, suddenly, that he’d been thinking his future through without confiding in Thursday about it at all.

 

It was always just so difficult to talk with him. So emotional.

 

“-told him you were on top of your game. You are aren’t you?”

 

“Well, I think so,” Morse said awkwardly. Truth be told, his studies had rather fallen by the wayside recently, but if there was an actual goal to work towards then he could pick them back up again. He was no stranger to late night cramming sessions, and it would give him something to fill his hours with.

 

“Think so? You’d better be! Don’t want you treading water on general duties another twelve month.” Morse couldn’t help a slight smile at the brusque command, but it faded almost as soon as Thursday’s eyes flicked to it.

 

“I’ll just-“ he jerked his head in the direction of the office, and heard Thursday’s sigh behind him as he left.

 

\-----------------

 

Having his intuition proved right was a heady feeling, and he was there when the victim’s wife came in to report her husband missing.

 

The fierce thrum of  _I’m good at this_ sung through his veins, and Morse flung himself into the investigation with every scrap of energy he had to spare. The interviews he conducted at the College and with Dorothea Frazil gave him the feeling of a thread he wasn’t quite catching, but that he knew was there, underlying all of this.

 

It was almost a wretch to be pulled away after Thursday got the information from his ‘informant,’ but the satisfaction of being able to accompany Thursday on an investigation kept him quiet all the way to The Moonlight Rooms.

 

The unexpected confrontation with Vic and Vince Kasper raised a slew of questions in Morse’s mind. What had they done to engender such ire in Thursday; to raise his hackles so badly? Who was Carter, and why was Thursday so riled up by the comment?

 

“And who’s this then?” Vince Kasper said with a scornful glance in Morse’s direction.

 

Morse stayed quiet, assuming it was best to ignore him, but Thursday practically snarled in response. “Never you mind who it is!” Even before he’d finished speaking, Thursday had angled his body in front of Morse, as though to protect him from a blow.

 

Morse’s mild irritation at Thursday’s protectiveness dampened immediately at the bright look of interest which spread across the younger Kasper’s face. Vince gave him a slow, appraising once over, and Morse practically felt Thursday bristle.

 

Luckily Vic spoke up and distracted both of them, but Thursday remained incredibly tense, speaking in a low intense growl as he warned them away and then stormed out. Morse was set to follow, but a hand on his hand caused him to snap around in surprise.

 

“Hold up a minute,” Vince said, smooth and charming now. Morse looked over his shoulder to see Vince’s father speaking to Charlie, apparently unconcerned with his son’s movement.

 

“I really must be going,” Morse said coolly, and started to withdraw, but Vince moved in step with him, and slung an arm about his shoulder when he began to turn away.

 

“That’s not very friendly now, is it.”

 

“I wasn’t aware that we were friends.”

 

“Ha, you’re a funny one. You work with him, then, do you? You Fred Thursday’s new boy?”

 

So many alarm bells went off in Morse’s head that it was almost impossible to think clearly. “I work at the same police station,” he said carefully. “On general duties. They send me out whenever there’s a call.”

 

The arm around his shoulder’s loosened, and Vince got right in his face. “Oh, I think there’s more to it than that,” the man murmured smarmily. “Saw the way he protected you. No, you’re one he cares about.” And he stared at Morse for a moment, as though trying to figure out why.

 

“Please excuse me,” Morse said firmly, and moved off with a quick stride. Vince Kasper didn’t follow, and he breathed an inward sigh of relief.

 

“What kept you?” Thursday asked abrasively as soon as he found him outside, but Morse noticed the way his gaze lingered on Morse, the way he hovered close as they walked back.

 

“The son – Vince. Wanted a word.”

 

“Oh yes?” Thursday’s eyes didn’t leave his face, but Morse said nothing further. With a huff of frustration, Thursday turned onto the pavement and headed towards where they’d parked the car. “You think you’ve found somewhere decent, someplace the rot hasn’t got to yet – but it creeps in. They want to play that game here? Over my dead body.”

 

Morse wasn’t sure he’d ever heard Thursday talk like this. As though it was personal. It made his next question even more pressing. “Who’s Carter?’

 

His feet took him a another step or two before Thursday’s sudden halt registered. He turned, and found Thursday staring at him as though he’d tried to summon a ghost. His face contorted, first anger, then fear. As though he was expecting something terrible to happen right in the middle of the street. Glancing around, Morse found it quiet; nothing unusual for an afternoon in Oxford. And no-one had followed them from the club.

 

When he spoke, Thursday’s voice was abrupt and final. “You stay away from this place,” he said, and when Morse canted his eyes to the side to shrug it off he took two quick steps to grip Morse’s upper arm, hard. “I mean it, Morse. Stay away.”

 

“Why?” Morse asked boldly.

 

“Just do as I say,” Thursday bit out, and, far from being touched by his apparent protectiveness, Morse felt the wick within him catch light again.

 

“Not unless it’s for good reason.” His expression was doubtless stubborn, and Thursday’s face set into hard lines in response.

 

“I’m ordering you to, that’s reason enough.”

 

“Ordering me as my superior officer? This is police business, is it?”

 

“Damn it, Morse.” The hold on Morse’s arm lessened, and Thursday’s arm fell to his side. They stood facing each other, two parallel lines refusing to bend. “Just focus on that hit and run and boning up for your Sergeant’s. Vic Kasper’s bad news, you’re safer away from him. Understood?” The words were clipped and curt.

 

“Because of Carter?” Morse couldn’t resist asking.

 

“Leave it!”

 

The words rang in the street for a moment before Morse gave a stiff nod and turned away. He heard a faint curse behind him, but Thursday made no apology as they got into the car.

 

\---------------------

 

Hearing that his sister had called the station with news of his father was enough to throw him off balance all over again.

 

“Hope for the best, that’s the ticket,” Bright said before leaving, and then it was just he and Thursday stood there in tense silence.

 

The need to reach out to the side was overwhelming. Thursday would catch his hand, give it a quick, rough squeeze, and the world would be a little more bearable. Except, right at this moment, Morse wasn’t sure that Thursday  _would_ have taken his hand, even if they weren’t standing in the middle of the station. Angry words still burned between them, and Morse couldn’t help but feel that any touch would be angry too, would be a strange betrayal of the way that things should be.

 

The weight of the silence grew heavy and potent, and Morse cleared his throat. “He suffers with angina,” he managed. “Has done for years.” It was hard for him to separate out the man that his father was now from the one that he had been once. Like two melodies which should have harmonised but instead lay over each other in discordance. “I’m sure that they’re making more of it than there is.”

 

“Well, you won’t know ‘til you talk to them, will you?” Thursday’s voice was oddly calm, and Morse darted a startled glance at him.

 

“I, ah, I’ll phone my sister back. She might…” Words failed him, and the Thursday of his imagination took a step closer, brushed a hand over the back of his sleeve. The one in real life did not, and the lack of the expected action incited a brief, sharp ache in him.

 

They were at the police station, he told himself firmly – but then Thursday had always found a way before. Had always managed to disguise the little touches that were almost all that they had left of their relationship. People had never seemed to notice, or think it was odd.

 

It was Morse’s fault, of course, that this was all they had left. He had given up living together, given up their few hours of sharing a bed each night, their quiet conversations on the drive to and from work.

 

He couldn’t remember why, at this exact moment.

 

“I should call her,” he said again, numbly, and Thursday nodded.

 

“Of course. They’re your family – if you’re needed you must go.”

 

It should have been a reassuring statement. Supportive. But it had been said so casually, almost dismissively, that Morse couldn’t help half-flinching in betrayal. As if Thursday didn’t care if he was there or not.

 

“Sergeant Jakes is back and forth from court, I don’t want to leave you a man down in the middle of all this,” he said quickly.

 

“You let me worry about that.” Thursday gave him a quick nod, eyes dark, and then left him to his thoughts.

 

It took five minutes of staring at the phone to bring himself to call. Three rings to pray that no one answered. Another ring to pray that if someone did then it was Joyce. The click of the receiver to hope that his father wasn’t so badly ill that Morse would have to visit.

 

“Hello? Joyce Morse speaking.”

 

He breathed in. Breathed out. “Joyce? It’s Endeavour. I, uh, I heard you called earlier.”

 

Her voice, which had sounded normal before, immediately gained a noticeable wobble. “Hey, you. I’m sorry to disturb you at work, I just…”

 

He closed his eyes, pressed his thumb hard against his forehead. “No, don’t worry about it. Is he… bad?”

 

He must be, of course. Morse knew she wouldn’t have called for less.

 

“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered harshly, immediately sounding on the edge of tears. “He won’t listen to the doctors, and mum-“ She broke off, and he was grateful to avoid the subject.

 

“Should I come?” he asked, and cursed the words as soon as they stumbled from his lips. But he’d had to ask, he’d had to.

 

“Yes.” A slight hiccough. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be so – you’re the first person I’ve really told.”

 

“ _Told?_  You don’t mean that he’s-“

 

“No,” she said rapidly. “No. Just – it’s been a while, and he’s getting worse and worse.”

 

“I’ll take the train up this afternoon,” he promised, and her gratitude sat like a heavy lump in his stomach.


	6. Chapter 6

He didn’t see Thursday before he left, though he left a brief note on his empty desk. It was missing everything important that Morse might have possibly wanted to say to him, reading only, ‘Leaving today to be with family, will call the station tomorrow.’

 

It should have said too many things to cram onto a small scrap of paper, especially one left out in the open.  _We need to talk soon. This can’t go on. I’ll apologise to Mrs Thursday. I’m thinking of leaving_.

 

The hum in his bones told him it should have said  _I love you_ , but those were words they had never spoken, and, he suspected, never would. The two of them were far too awkward and ill matched - and whatever was between them too constrained and unhappy - to be allowed to call it love.

 

It was, of course - love. It was the only way Morse knew, sometimes, that Thursday loved him; the fact that he couldn’t have helped himself. It was a secret relief and branding source of guilt all at the same time.

 

There was too much time on the train to think, and then he was knocking on the front door of his childhood home and contrarily wished the journey had taken longer. Faced with the frosty antagonism of Gwen, he fell into the habits of a lifetime and let her words wash over him – the chill only surface deep and not finding their mark.

 

Joyce was simpler, someone it was easy to fall into company again with no expectation or pressure. “You’ve lost weight,” she said after a brief hug. “They aren’t looking after you properly.”

 

Morse thought of the mouth-watering cooking of Mrs Thursday, and acknowledged to himself that if he’d lost weight it was his own fault. It wasn’t for lack of being looked after. He _missed_ Win then, and her endless love and care, in a way which he hadn’t allowed himself to properly until now.

 

He went straight upstairs, not putting it off, and a minute in the same room as his father was enough to confirm his regret that he’d come. What use was he here? Yes, he’d accepted the way that things were with his father long ago – before he went to university, and then all over again after Susan – but that didn’t stop it feeling any less raw.

 

Joyce, at least, he could help, so he took her out to the pub to give her a break. They made their way through all the usual pleasantries, and she ribbed him for drinking ale now, and then she carefully asked, “Why did you go back, to Oxford?”

 

Morse thought of the phone calls they’d exchanged in the last few months, the ones where he’d felt more able to talk to her; how things had lost their dull coat. She must have wondered before, but she hadn’t asked.

 

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, and she knew him well enough to recognise it as him organising his thoughts, and to wait it out. A moment later, “It was just for a few days, to start with, for a case, and it was… difficult.”

 

She nodded silently, eyes filled with empathy.

 

“But the people that I worked with – the Detective Inspector in particular – I don’t know, it just felt like a better place to be than where I was. And once I moved, the rest of it faded gradually. Became… bearable.”

 

She watched him for a moment more, then, softly, “I was worried about you, you know. We all were. I thought… I don’t know what I thought. When I told pop he just said ‘Proverbs 26:11.”

 

His eyes unfocused for a moment as he remembered the lessons drilled into him as a child. 26:11.

 

_‘As a dog returns to its vomit, so fools repeat their folly.’_

 

The irony hit him hard, and the laugh that spilled out of him was rusty and dark.

 

He waved her off when she started to speak. “No, I didn’t go back for Susan, or to…” Wallow in the pain, let it linger. Oh no, there were whole new complications for him to deal with.

 

He contemplated his pint for a moment, thinking about telling her, about having someone to confide in. It would be a weight upon her though, the knowing, and he’d have to ask her to keep it a secret since he couldn’t stand his father or Gwen knowing.

 

In the end, the deciding factor was that he didn’t want her to have to worry about him.

 

“I’m fine now,” he said. “I’m going in for my Sergeant’s exam this week, and I’ve got my singing. Been in touch with a few old friends.”

 

Her smile was tinged with sadness, and it was as though her thoughts were so loud that he could hear her think ‘but you’re so  _lonely_.’

 

“It’s fine, really,” he said, because at this point he wasn’t sure he knew how to  _not_  be alone.

 

There were plenty of problems on Thursday’s side of this, not least his marriage, but Morse knew that his own personality wasn’t exactly making things any easier.

 

She smiled again, pretending to accept the lie, and they carried on.

 

\------------

 

His father dismissed his leaving quickly enough, but heaved his eyes open again to say, “You’re with the police? In Oxford?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Never liked the police,” his father grunted. Then, “And with that girl again?”

 

Susan, Morse almost corrected him, but what was the point. “No, father. She’s married now.”

 

“Humph. Getting yourself involved with someone due to all of that nonsense.” Morse stayed silent. “And then turning into a great flake who need head doctors!”

 

A bitter taste welled in Morse’s mouth; the unfairness of it stung. His father and Gwen had come at him from opposite sides during his recuperation here – his father convinced that bonds were completely made up and that Morse was being a weakling, his stepmother harping on that there must be something really wrong with him if he couldn’t make a bond work. There had been days when he hadn’t felt like he could breathe, but he’d barely been able to summon up enough energy to eat, let alone to tell them where to go.

 

It was an old wound, now, and not worth revisiting.

 

“You’re not like I thought you’d be,” his father rasped in a disappointed tone.

 

Morse left without a word.

 

\------------------

 

And then,  _and then_.

 

Back at the station, finding Strange hadn’t done badly in his absence. Remembering something Win had said once, and pushing himself to say, “Good work, I’ll have to take you for a pint.” The genuine smile on Strange’s face was almost enough to make Morse wish he’d thought to make the effort more often.

 

He chased several leads on the case, and rang Lorimer to put off another meeting, because his conscience was now twanging firmly in regard to Thursday - and if he was going for his Sergeant’s he didn’t even know if he wanted to pursue the idea of academia again.

 

And then Thursday and Jakes at the pub for lunch, and the need to talk to Thursday burning almost as strongly as the need to bury his head in the sand. With Jakes there he had no chance either way, and when Thursday asked while Jakes was at the bar, Morse murmured, “No, I can’t tonight, I have to follow up a lead.”

 

The lead being at The Moonlight Rooms of course, and as he walked through the doors Morse felt buoyed by a ridiculous rush of rebelliousness. Thursday had warned him off again, over lunch, but, since he wouldn’t say  _why_ , Morse was going to get on with doing his job.

 

And then seeing Joan with Peter Jakes, and thinking of how young and fragile she’d seemed the other day in the car.

 

And then seeing Thursday, and the angry crash of his progress through the club. The cold, ragged anger which was shining from him like an overly bright sun.

 

“Sir,” Morse said as he blocked Thursday’s lunge at Vice Kasper, and “ _Dad!_ ” Joan cried a minute later, and finally, finally Thursday seemed to come back to himself.

 

“Get out,  _now_!” he growled at Joan. “Morse, see her back.”

 

“No,” Morse said stubbornly, his arm still thrown up between Thursday and his target. “I’m not leaving you. We go together.” He wasn’t sure who he trusted less at this point – Thursday or the Kaspers – but there was no way he was leaving Thursday behind to receive notice of his dead body or murder conviction in the morning. He tried to inject as much command as possible into his tone. “Now.”

 

Restrained energy practically vibrated under Thursday’s skin; Morse felt muscles gather and tensed in anticipation of having to stop him, but Thursday didn’t move.

 

“You come near my family again, you’ll be needing a wreathe, not me,” Thursday threatened, and then he shook off Morse’s hold and stormed out of the door. Morse, Joan’s elbow gripped carefully in his hand, was two feet behind.

 

The cold air outside hit him like a slap in the face. He barely had time to take a deep breath before Thursday was turning to punch the wall - Morse’s quick “ _Sir,_ ” the only thing which seemed to stay his hand. It stayed clenched in an angry fist, hovering near the wall and then retracting.

 

“Sir,” Morse repeated, trying to project ‘ _you’re scaring her_ ’ and ‘ _not now_ ’ and ‘ _what were you thinking?_ ’

 

“Were you here with her?” Thursday asked suddenly, rounding on Morse and Joan.

 

“What? No,” Morse said. “I was-“

 

“Right then,” Thursday growled. “You – taxi.” Joan was hustled to the nearest cab, waiting at the corner, and Thursday put her in it with a quick word in her ear. A few quick strides back to Morse, and his anger seemed to have banked but not faded one iota.

 

“I-“

 

“Who  _were_  you here with then?” Thursday asked harshly.

 

Morse frowned, bewildered at the source of Thursday’s anger. “No one.”

 

“Stood by yourself all night, were you?”

 

Which actually sounded about average, but, “Well I was talking to-“

 

“No need to hide it. Some bright young lad, is it, quick enough to get on his knees for you?” The barrage of words didn’t register for a moment, and then Thursday was talking again before Morse could so much as open his mouth. “You know what? Don’t tell me, I don’t want to know! Though you could have had the balls to tell me yourself. God knows I’d not deny you anything.”

 

“I-“

 

“And you came  _here_ , after I told you not to!”

 

There was a moment where Morse felt suspended, as though his feelings could be swept any number of ways, but when it ended and he came down to earth it was  _cold_  and  _hard_  that had settled upon him.  

 

“I was here for the hit and run case,” he said shortly.

 

Thursday snorted. “Pull the other one.”

 

“I’m here for the hit and run case,” Morse repeated, each word crystal clear. The slightest hint of confusion showed through Thursday’s mulish expression. “There was a matchbook case from the club in the Professor’s effects, with a number belonging to a girl who worked here.”

 

“I – you were here for the case?”

 

Morse nodded, the motion sharp and jerky, and Thursday swore harshly, turning half away.

 

“Nice to know your opinion of me, though,” Morse jabbed.

 

Thursday stayed where he was, features half in shadow. The outline of his brow and mouth was drawn down, but Morse couldn’t interpret his expression. “I was so sure,” he thought he heard Thursday mumble softly.

 

“Sorry?”

 

“I-“ Thursday swung back, meeting Morse’s eyes with shame that almost looked more like irritation. “I wasn’t thinking straight.”

 

Morse forced himself not to respond, and instead asked, “What happened? Tonight? Why were you here?”

 

Thursday blew out a long breath, and eased his stance, taking a step closer. The action brought a sudden awareness of their surroundings, and Morse glanced around the dimly lit street. They were standing in the pool of light cast by the lamp outside the club entrance; he could barely see five feet to either side. No one else around aside from the few taxis waiting.

 

“Win found a wreathe on our doorstep earlier,” Thursday said, and Morse could see that the words cost him. “It’s what they did when – when Mickey Carter died. When they killed him.”

 

 _Who was Mickey Carter_ , Morse didn’t ask. “A threat?”

 

“They aren’t known for their subtlety.”

 

“Is Mrs Thursday alright?”

 

Thursday sighed. “Yes, she’s fine. A bit shaken. But I – God, when I saw it. And then finding Joan here. And  _you_. I – I wasn’t rational, lad, I’m sorry.”

 

“How could you think that?” Morse asked quietly, because it was impossible not to ask, and the thudding of his heart competed with the distant bass of the music from inside.

 

“I didn’t, not really.” Morse waited. “Well, I mean – everything’s changed. You moved out, you’ve been acting strange.” Thursday’s voice was gruff, unsure. “Thought you might have met someone; given up on me.”

 

Morse’s mouth worked for a moment. “No.”

 

“But you  _want_  to,” Thursday said unhappily. “You don’t want this.”

 

“You’re the one sleeping with someone else,” Morse snapped before he could curb his tongue. Regret set in instantly, and he bowed his head and scrubbed a hand through his hair.

 

“Morse,” he heard, but didn’t raise his head.

 

“I didn’t… Forget I said that,” he mumbled.

 

Another sigh, and then a broad hand settling gently on the crown of his head, teasing his own fingers away from where they clutched at his head. “Come on, lad,” Thursday whispered. “Come home with me. Need a talk, we do.”

 

“I-“ He didn’t know what excuse he would have offered, what desperate evasion would have come from his lips, but Thursday’s fingers moved to cup the back of his skull and rub slightly, and a small, needy noise fell from his mouth instead.

 

“Come on, now,” Thursday said again. Morse let himself lean his weight into the solid bulk of Thursday’s chest, his head coming to rest on a warm, comforting shoulder. “Come with me.”

 

Morse nodded against the smooth fabric, and followed.

 

\---------------------------

 

 

Unfortunately, the scene when they reached Thursday’s house was not conducive to talking. The door jolted and was tugged open while Thursday was still turning the key in the lock, and Mrs Thursday met them with the look of someone barely holding it together.

 

“Oh Fred,” she choked out. “He’s gone. Sam’s gone.”

 

Thursday left the key dangling, and was inside in a flash, pulling Win in close and staring intently into her face. “Gone? Missing, you mean?”

 

And Morse’s brain followed the spark of connection Thursday’s must have, seeing that he instantly suspected the Kaspers.

 

“No,” Win said as Morse retrieved the key and pulled the door shut behind him. “No, he left a note. He’s  _gone_. Join the army, that’s what he said.”

 

Thursday stared at her for several seconds, brain obviously struggling to switch gears. “Run off to join the army? Why that little… Where’s the note?”

 

They followed her into the living room, where Joan was perched, lost looking, on the couch.

 

“He’d been saying… but I never thought he would,” Joan said, with a beseeching look at her father, and Morse saw a moment of terrible strain cross Thursday’s face, felt it echo in his own heart.

 

“Alright, love,” Thursday said. “Let’s see then.”

 

A creased sheet of paper was produced, uncharacteristically neat handwriting pored over. When Morse would have stood aside to let them have their space as a family, he was hooked back in by Thursday’s arm and pulled in close, sharing his warmth. And his burden, he thought after a moment - and the thought that Thursday might need to lean on him for once was enough to make him edge a little closer. Mrs Thursday crowded in on Morse’s other side, tucking under the arm which he raised unthinkingly for her, and his eyes scanned the note again.

 

 _Have to leave… My fault…. Everyone’s unhappy… Always wanted to join the… Can’t stay_.

 

“Right,” Thursday said heavily after he’d reread it several times. “How about you tell us what you know then?”

 

Joan twisted her fingers together and shifted uneasily on the couch. “He was just saying things, like he always does. I’m going to run off and join the circus, or become a famous footballer, or join the army.”

 

“And what did he say, this time?”

 

“I-“ Joan hesitated, and glanced at Morse. Guessing that she was worried about making him uncomfortable, he gave her a quick encouraging nod. “Since Endeavour… well, since all of that, he’d been saying it more and more to start with. He’d get out of here, go and serve his country. He’d…” The pause was of longer duration, this time. “That way he’d be able to support us _, you_ ,” she added with a quick, fraught look at her mother, “if he needed to.”

 

“Oh, love,” Win said sadly.

 

“He’d settled down again though the last few weeks; it was almost like normal. He – I think he quite liked having another boy about the place. And he’d – we’d – he’d…. well, he’d started to think that maybe things would be alright.” She darted another glance at Morse, who could see where this was going.

 

“And then I moved out,” he supplied, and she gave a slow, pained nod.

 

“Everything was so tense,” she whispered. “Mum and Dad were so unhappy, and none of us knew why you didn’t want to stay. And Sam, well, Sam thought maybe this was the end, that we were all going to split up. And he said-“ she let loose a small sob which she muffled in the palm of her hand “-he said a couple of days ago that now was the time…” Another sob came, and Win moved to sit next to her and draw her into her arms.

 

“He’s only seventeen,” Thursday muttered darkly. “Christ. When did he go?”

 

Win looked up, her arms cradling Joan fiercely against her. “Must have been right after you left. I’d gone round to my sister’s for a bit – like you said, just in case. I found it here when I got back. I went to the train station, but he wasn’t there.”

 

“Alright,” Thursday said, and drew a hand down over his face. “Nothing we can do right now. Let’s all try and get some sleep, and I’ll see if I can’t get a trace on him in the morning. Any recruiter’s station should turn him down flat, him looking like he does, but even so…”

 

“I can stop by the train station on my way home,” Morse said, mind already jumping ahead. “See if they remember him and where he bought a ticket to.”

 

Win shook her head, and he realised she must have already tried that. “If I say I’m from the police they might-“

 

“What do you mean on your way home?” Thursday said sharply, and turned a forbidding gaze on him. “You’ll stay here tonight.”

 

“Surely it would be better if it was just-“

 

“If you think you’re going anywhere-“

 

“Enough,” Win interrupted, and her tone was final. “Endeavour, dear, we’re a bit shaken; we’d all feel a lot better if you stayed with us tonight.”

 

He opened his mouth to object again, but there was really nothing in that which he could object to. A weary nod was enough to change her look to relieved.

 

“I’ll go and put the kettle on,” she said firmly.

 

\--------------------

 

The tea set made it to the coffee table with only a slight shaking of Win’s hands, and Morse saw from the redness of her eyes that she’d been crying in the kitchen.

 

“Let me help,” he said quickly, and moved to help her pour – everyone’s preferences as familiar to him now as if he’d been living there for years.

 

“Thanks, love,” she said automatically, and the words fitted neatly into a space inside him he hadn’t realised had been hollow for the last week.

 

“Here,” he said to Joan, proffering a cup and saucer to her. Win had used the best tea-set, he noticed absently. As though this was an occasion.

 

“Thanks,” she said, and he sat down on the edge of the couch next to her.

 

“I’m, uh, sorry we didn’t get enough time the other day. I didn’t know-“ he cut himself off, because there seemed nothing more to say that wasn’t blaming himself for something he had no way of knowing about. He cast about for another subject. “How’s it going, then? The move with – Lizzie, wasn’t it?”

 

Her brief look at him was astonished before she darted her eyes at her parents, talking quietly a few feet away. Of course, he thought, feeling like a fool, she felt like she couldn’t move now, not if Sam was gone.

 

“We’ll find him,” he said, and injected as much confidence into his voice as possible.

 

Her cup rattled the saucer with the force she placed it back on the table.

 

“What are you-“ he started, as she grabbed his hand and hauled him towards the door, but she just tugged harder so he gave in and followed. “What’s this about?” he asked as she pulled him into the kitchen and glared at him fiercely.

 

“You, you great dummy. How could I think about leaving after you left us, and it was like there was a huge hole in the house? Mum and dad were inconsolable, and Sam was right – it was like everything started to fall apart.”

 

“But-“

 

“Why didn’t you talk to them? I know-“ and her voice softened to an even quieter whisper “-you weren’t happy here, but we wanted you to be. Mum and dad had some sort of plan, why didn’t you let them-”

 

“ _There wasn’t any plan_. That I knew about,” he was compelled to add. “It would have just ground on like that, hurting everyone. Better for me to be in your lives as little as possible, now that-“

 

“It doesn’t work like that,” she interrupted him in turn. “You don’t get to come into our lives, be a part of our family, and then just disappear! How could you think we’d want that?”

 

“How could your mother possibly want me here?” he hissed, pushed to it. “She only agreed to it because Thursday  _needed_ it, and now he doesn’t anymore.”

 

That stopped her, and she gave him a look of complete astonishment. “What do you mean?” she hissed back. “He hasn’t been able to sleep; he’s been so withdrawn it’s been driving mum to distraction. Else he’s pacing up and down in your room upstairs, talking to himself. I thought,” she said, dropping her voice so low he could barely hear, “he might have been going mad.”

 

His turn to stare at her in bewilderment. “No,” he said, stymied. “No, he should have been fine. I mean, not fine, but I didn’t think he’d…”

 

A tear streaked down her face, and he reached out a hand. “Joan.” But she jerked her face back before he could reach her.

 

“Fix this,” she said determinedly, and a moment later he heard her footfalls on the stairs.

 

He left the kitchen himself with a sigh, pausing outside of the living room door which was open just a crack.

 

“I feel like we’ve taken ten steps backwards, love,” Morse heard Thursday say, and held himself frozen and quiet. “He’s skittish as a colt. Won’t talk to me; will barely look at me. As though I’d hurt him, but I haven’t done anything!”

 

There was silence then, as Thursday, Win, and Morse in the hall all contemplated the truth that they knew but couldn’t speak.

 

“I don’t know what to do,” Thursday pleaded, and Morse rubbed a fist over his chest where it ached. It was unfair, he thought to himself, that all the responsibility of this was placed on Thursday. There was no resolution to the problem. Thursday couldn’t be with both of them; they’d tried that. And to give up one or the other… To leave his family wasn’t an option, but to leave Morse was nigh on impossible.

 

The only thing Win could do was give him permission to leave her. And the only thing Morse could do was encourage him to break the bond; and Morse just really didn’t have it in him anymore.

 

He heard Thursday’s sigh, could picture his exact expression. “I think I’ve lost him,” Thursday said quietly, and Morse strained to catch every word. It was wrong of him, to keep listening, but he couldn’t make himself move away. “The things I said to him this evening; God, you’d scold me if you knew.”

 

“I’m sure he knows you didn’t mean it, Fred.”

 

“No, I did, and that’s the worst of it,” he said heavily. “I let myself get all twisted around, and I thought…”

 

“Thought what?” she asked, but he didn’t answer for a long while.

 

Morse was just giving some thought to announcing himself, to banging the kitchen door shut or knocking, when Thursday said in a rough voice, “I was jealous.”

 

Instantly all of the blood in Morse’s body rushed to his face, and his heart sounded so loud in his ears that surely they could hear it. Just one more minute, he told himself. He’d listen for just one more minute.

 

“I thought – I don’t know what I thought. I can’t explain it. Feels like he’s been pulling away from me, like he doesn’t need me anymore. And I can’t – well, you’ve seen what I’ve been like. And he’s been so  _secretive_.” Another sigh. “Sorry, pet, I never meant to be like this.”

 

“Don’t you apologise, Fred Thursday!” she said strongly, and a smile teased without warning at Morse’s lips at her tone. “At least, not to me. You need to have a proper talk with that boy.”

 

“I know, I know. But with Sam-“

 

“After we find him, then.”

 

Morse forced his feet to shuffle a little, and gave a gentle knock against the door. There was a moment’s silence, then a “Come in, love,” from Win. She didn’t even know who it was, Morse reflected, it could have just as easily been Joan, but her tone was just the same for both of them.

 

He stuck his head around the door. “Joan alright?” Thursday asked gruffly before he could say anything.

 

Morse nodded. “She needed to talk for a bit, I think. She’s gone up to bed.”

 

Win stood up and came to give him a hug, squeezing him close as though doing so tightly enough might make Sam reappear.

 

When she let go her eyes were bright, but there were no tears. “I can’t stop thinking about him,” she fretted. “What if he’s out on the streets, what if-“

 

“Now, love, he’s a sensible enough boy. I know you rang round his friends, but I’m sure he’s got somewhere else to stay.”

 

“He’s only just seventeen,” she said helplessly.

 

Seventeen was old enough, Morse thought. But then they were his parents. Sam would never be old enough.

 

Thursday came over to take her hand. “I’ll go out, drive around a bit. Just in case.”

 

Morse knew the chances of finding him that way were slim – he likely wasn’t even in Oxford anymore – but kept his mouth shut. This must have been Thursday’s plan all along, he realised. For all that Thursday had said there was nothing they could do tonight, he couldn’t just sit and do nothing while Sam was out there.

 

Win just nodded gratefully. “Alright,” she said.

 

“I’ll come with you,” Morse suggested, but a frown swept over Thursday’s face as he shook his head.

 

“No, I want you here, with them,” he said firmly, and Morse was suddenly reminded of the events earlier in the evening, of Vic Kasper and the threat to Thursday’s family. His mouth went dry.

 

“Of course,” he said. “I’ll be here.”

 

It was a promise.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get heated with the Kaspers and the case, and Morse's father worsens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, all of the angst and feels are dedicated to everyone who's left such lovely reviews for me ;)

Morning dawned with no resolution. No Sam, nor any sighting of him. Thursday looked even more exhausted, with grey shadows under his eyes that seemed to have taken on a life of their own. None of them seemed to have gotten much sleep, at that, although they all took it differently. Joan off in a world of her own, staring into her tea cup, and Win bustling around with frantic nervous energy as she packed a lunch for Thursday and Morse.

 

“I’ll ring as soon as I find anything,” Thursday promised.

 

Win gave all of them quick, strong hugs as they got ready to leave. Joan gave Morse an arched eyebrow and an insistent look, and Thursday reached out to straighten Morse’s jacket right there in front of the other two, as though it was the most normal thing in the world.

 

It was odd, but the rush that Morse felt was almost like his heart restarting.

 

The sound of a car pulling up outside shocked he and Thursday back to reality, and he met Thursday’s eyes with dawning horror as he realized that  _Jakes_  was there to pick him up.

 

“Alright,” Thursday said. “Meet it as it comes. We’ll give you lift too, love, don’t want you walking on your own.”

 

So Thursday and Joan and Morse walked out together, and if Jake’s eyes went wide and disbelieving, Morse was pretty sure that the connection he made was the wrong one.

 

Any assumptions were hopefully dispelled by Thursday’s terse explanation that his son had run away, and Morse had been helping him look all night. Still, Jake’s stare at Morse, and the way his eyes then flicked to Joan, was unfriendly.

 

“You talk to whoever you can get hold of,” Thursday said to Morse as he dropped him off at the station. “I’ll go straight to the recruiter’s and then the station again.”

 

They way that Thursday instinctively trusted him to handle this, no matter the rest of the state of things between them, was a comforting warmth which tided him through an endless morning of phone calls to every train and bus station with direct links to Oxford; every army recruiting office in those towns. When he’d exhausted the obvious options, he worked at the evidence he’d gathered on the Coke-Norris case, trying to make it fit together, trying to see if Thursday’s instincts about the Kasper’s were validated or based on an old grudge.

 

And then, right in the middle of it, there was another call about his father.

 

At the intimation that this was it, _the end_ , that he really should be there, he felt nothing more than an urge to avoid the problem entirely - to claim that there was no way that he could leave his work. It was even true.

 

But when Thursday returned after lunch – no luck – and heard about the call from Strange, he insisted that Morse ought to go. “There’s one more place I want to check,” he said, “and then I’ll take you to the train station myself.”

 

All well and good, but Thursday had more than enough on his plate as it was, so once he was out of the office again Morse took himself back to his flat to gather a change of clothes and head to the station.

 

He didn’t make it halfway there before he was intercepted by Vince Kasper.

 

The gun pointed at him from under the folds of a jacket was reason enough to sit down quietly on a bench with him; Morse doubted he’d be stupid enough to shoot Morse in the middle of the street but he still wasn’t inspired to try any heroics.

 

“So, how’s my old friend Thursday, then?” Kasper asked companionably.

 

Morse said nothing.

 

“I’ve heard he’s got troubles at home,” Vince continued, and this time Morse’s eyes flew up to meet his in astonished anger – were the Kasper’s involved in this somehow after all?

 

He realized his mistake too late. “Oh, he  _does_ ,” crowed Kasper, and flung his arm over the bench back, fingertips just grazing Morse’s shoulder. “And would you be the cause of that? I saw the way that he looked at you – his bit on the side, are you?”

 

Morse looked away, across the street, and pressed his lips firmly shut.

 

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Vince said, and he reached out to nudge the gun very gently against Morse’s ribs. “I’m just making friendly conversation. You and me, I like to think of us as friends. And the two of you, well, I think you’re a good deal more than friends. Do you like it, or does he have to hold you down? Do you beg him to stop?”

 

The low, intimate notes of Kasper’s voice made Morse’s fingers clench into tight fists.

 

“Shut up,” he said tightly, and he shouldn’t have, he shouldn’t let Kasper know that he was getting to him...

 

“Oh, you  _do_.” Vince leaned in closer, so that his breath ghosted moist and disgusting over Morse’s ear. “He must have pounced on a pretty thing like you, eh? And you can’t tell him no because he’s the boss. Tell you what, why don’t you come and work for me, and I’ll make sure you get first shot at him.”

 

Morse held himself absolutely still, and started to seriously calculate how to wrestle the gun away from Kasper. The problem was the number of bystanders if it went off accidentally.

 

“All you have to do is tell me a few things about him, about our Fred. Why don’t you-“

 

Morse turned his face away in disgust seconds before he heard a bellowed “Kasper,” from across the street. His eyes automatically sought and found the corresponding reassurance of Thursday’s figure – rushing heedlessly through the traffic to stand panting only a few feet away.

 

“Let him go, Kasper,” Thursday growled, and Vince laughed. He snaked his fingers over the shoulder of Morse’s jacket until the tips stroked lightly over Morse’s neck. The barrel of the gun pressed a little harder into his ribs.

 

Morse held very still, and tried to catch Thursday’s eyes.

 

All of Thursday’s attention was on Kasper, though, practically vibrating with rage. If Morse had thought him angry at the club that was nothing to this – this spitting fury which half-lunged forward only to halt in frustrated agony when Vince flashed the gun from under the jacket.

 

“Morse,” Thursday said hoarsely, but still didn’t look at him.

 

“Oh, my friend Morse here was telling me all sorts of things about you,” Vince said cheerfully. “He’s been very…  _friendly_.” His fingers crept under Morse’s chin, tried to tilt it backwards. This, Morse could fight, and he locked every muscle he could so as not to give way. Vince laughed again. “Spirited, isn’t he. You must like that.”

 

“Get away from him, Vince, or I’ll end you,” Thursday said, and Morse didn’t think he’d ever heard menace in his voice like that before.

 

“Like you did after Mickey Carter? No, you can’t touch me, and you know it. Besides,” and Kasper unfurled his fingers from Morse’s throat, pulled back from him until he sat a foot away, “this was just a friendly conversation, like I said.”

 

He stood, cool as a cucumber - though he kept the business end of his jacket pointed at Morse - and smiled a wide, shark’s smile at them both. Two brisk steps backwards, and then he turned and made his way casually down the street, as though he hadn’t just been sitting with a gun jammed against Morse’s side.

 

The second he was out of sight, Thursday swooped in, hands desperately running over Morse’s shoulders as though to check for injuries. “I got a note,” he said roughly, and then, “You’re alright?”

 

“Yes,” Morse mumbled, the strange, frozen feeling from before not quite worn off yet. “Fine.”

 

“Christ, I thought you were…  _Morse_.” And Thursday reached out and pulled him in, arms enveloping him as though trying to shield him from the world. Morse’s face was tucked tightly against Thursday’s neck, and with every breath he breathed in Thursday’s scent. An almost alien sense of aching happiness spread in ripples through his entire body, and his eyes closed as he allowed his own hands to come up and smooth over Thursday’s back in reassurance.  

 

\----------------

 

An hour later Thursday put him on a train, despite all of his protestations. Morse imagined that Thursday was glad to be getting him to safety, away from all of this.

 

Leaving Thursday all alone, an island trying to deal with the crashing waves of the Kaspers on one side and the gaping maw of Sam’s disappearance on the other, felt so wrong, but Morse could see no other way forward at the moment. He had to go and see his father, it was the right thing to do.

 

Thursday gripped his hand tightly through the open window of the train carriage. “I know you love them too,” he said gruffly. “My Joan and Win and Sam. I know you’ll be good to them.”

 

Morse’s brow furrowed, and his lips parted in question as he tried to figure out what Thursday was trying to say.

 

“Here.” A folder was thrust into his hands, and by the time he’d looked up again Thursday was stepping back, an almost tragic look on his face, and the train jolted as it pulled out of the station.

 

Thursday’s behaviour was puzzling, yes, but once Morse started looking through the case file and realized what had happened, once he realized what Thursday was planning to  _do_ …

 

He arrived at The Moonlight Rooms just in time – too late almost, though with the promise of the cavalry behind him.

 

“Wait,” he called, and saw Thursday hesitate; saw his urge to believe in Morse triumph over his urge to get revenge. Was that the bond, wondered Morse, or was it something stronger – trust built up in their time together. He could see now, how the wondering had driven Susan wild.

 

Despite a few heart-stopping moments, the matter with the Kaspers was resolved with no blood shed, and the part of Morse that had been clenched in horrible anticipation since that moment on the train could relax again.

 

Thursday had meant to get himself killed, or at least assumed he would be. That’s what those words had meant – about Morse taking care of his family. He’d thought this was worth going out over, or maybe that everything had gone so wrong that it wasn’t salvageable anymore. That the only way of resolving the problem was to remove himself from the equation.

 

Morse could understand that feeling – in moments of idleness it had lingered in his own mind. But for  _Thursda_ _y_ to do this, to think of leaving his family…

 

“Never do that again,” Morse said strongly as they stood outside the club, everyone else having left.

 

“I had to-“

 

“No,” Morse rushed. “No you didn’t. Not without evidence, not without backup. Not without  _me_ ,” and his voice cracked on that last word. “If you’d-“ He stopped, and covered his mouth with the back of his hand, feeling nauseous.

 

“I had to protect them,” Thursday said gravely. “Had to protect you.”

 

“You can’t protect us if you’re dead,” Morse replied sharply. “And it wouldn’t be worth it. Not for any of us. What would Win think if I told her?”

 

Thursday opened his mouth, shut it again. He tilted his head. “You called her Win,” he said, marvelling.

 

And Morse was angry now. “So what if I did?”

 

“She’s been after you about it for months.” He considered Morse. “Does this mean I’m Fred, now?”

 

“I think we should get back to the station, s _ir_ ,” Morse said icily, but then his will broke and he lunged forward, grabbing Thursday’s lapels and pressing his mouth hard against his.

 

“Morse,” Thursday mumbled against his lips, and then the kiss grew desperate and wild, and Thursday slammed him back hard against the wall of the club, and Morse arched against him with a groan.

 

They parted a minute later, flushed and ruffled from the kiss. Thursday wore a hint of a grin on his face, and Morse worried that his own face gave away every vulnerability he was feeling.

 

“But then who killed Professor Coke-Norris?” he asked abruptly.

 

Following the chain of clues and discoveries was much too urgent and bright for him to consider leaving just yet – the thrill of the chase driving him forward. He would just chase down this one lead, and then he would go to his family.

 

The satisfaction of being right, once again, the look of shared understanding between he and Thursday – these were the moments he lived for.

 

And then pain.

 

The realisation that he’d been shot – much as back when he’d been stabbed – was delayed by a long time. Thursday was crouching over him, muttering dire imprecations and cupping his face in one hand, before Morse even registered that there had been shots fired.

 

He craned his head upwards, crying out with pain as he tried to raise himself on one arm, and saw the slumped body of Mrs Coke-Norris over by the chair. Thursday must have shot her. God.

 

He cried out again as the pressure on his hip increased, and his eyes frantically swept across empty space until they found Thursday again. Thursday’s lips were moving, but Morse couldn’t make out the words above the rush of blood in his ears. He focused harder, and could make out the shapes of the words on Thursday’s lips – ones he’d heard Thursday say so many times before. ‘It’s alright, lad, you’ll be alright.’

 

Time faded in and out a bit, though he tried to pay attention to what was going on around him. How ironic, the thought struck him, if  _he_  were to die now. It would certainly solve all of their problems.

 

“Stay with me, lad. Look at me. Morse.”

 

He could hear again. That was good, except that he realised the low, moaning sound in the background was himself. He forced himself to swallow it down, to choke it back, and then managed a rusty “Sir.”

 

Lips were pressed firmly against his forehead. “There’s an ambulance coming, Morse, you’ll be alright.”

 

“That’s good,” Morse said a little faintly.

 

He felt Thursday’s sigh more than heard it. “I shouldn’t have left you alone with her. Should have checked she wasn’t armed.”

 

“No way you…. could have known,” he managed

 

“It’s my job to know,” Thursday said, words thick with self-blame. “I’m supposed to take care of you. God, even on general duties you’re a magnet for more trouble than most.”

 

Thursday held his hand until the ambulance arrived, Morse clutching it tightly through fingers slippery with blood. The rhythmic cadence of Thursday’s reassurances faded into background noise, and Morse’s eyes traced patterns in the stippled ceiling until they were drawn away by a rush of movement and noise.

 

Thursday’s brusque commands directed the paramedics to Morse first, and there was a sudden burst of cool air as they cut his belt and trousers to reach the wound. He made some muffled noise of protest and tried to reach down, but his hands were easily pulled away by larger, stronger ones. He found Thursday crouching by his head, looking down at him with eyes full of worry. The only thing he could manage in response was a small grimace, but some of the lines in Thursday’s face eased a little.

 

They got him on a stretcher, and he passed DeBryn as he was carried out; the doctor’s concerned face swinging round to track his movements. Thursday’s hand slipped from Morse’s as he paused to talk with him, and Morse let his eyes slip closed for a moment.

 

When he opened them again, the stretcher was being strapped down in the back of the ambulance, and his arms flailed in a windmill of sudden panic as he said “No, I have to go. I have to go – my father.”

 

Hands held his shoulders down, and out of the corner of his eye he saw someone ready a needle.

 

“No,” he shouted more hoarsely, and then Thursday was pushing in through the door, brushing them aside and coming to stand with a hand resting on Morse’s leg.

 

“What’s this then?” Thursday said, and his voice was low and dangerous.

 

“He was fighting – he’ll injure himself!” one of the paramedics defended themselves.

 

“Morse?”

 

“I can’t go to hospital,” Morse said weakly. “I have to get to my father.”

 

Thursday swore quietly under his breath, and then briskly explained to the ambulance crew that Morse’s father was dying. “I can drive him, but only if he’s safe to go.” The last was directed pointedly at Morse.

 

The paramedic hesitated. “He really should go to the hospital. If it isn’t taken care of properly it could get infected, or if there’s more damage than we can see then it could affect his ability to walk.”

 

Morse’s eyes held Thursday’s with an almost physical grip.  _I need to do this_ , he thought strongly.

 

“Right,” Thursday said. “Patch him up best as you can, and we’ll get him taken care of straight away afterwards.

 

They pulled away the heavy temporary dressing that they’d strapped on, re-cleaned the wound, put in emergency stitches, and put on a more lightweight dressing.

 

“It’ll bleed in the next hour or two, or if you strain it. I’ll give you a spare, but you really need-“

 

“Alright, thanks,” Morse said in a strained voice, levering himself up from the bed. Thursday immediately hooked his arm under Morse’s shoulder, taking almost all of his weight, and Morse sagged gratefully against him.

 

“We’ve already given him all the painkillers we can,” the other paramedic said. “They’ll wear off in a few hours though.”

 

“Off we go then,” Thursday said, and they moved forward in a staggering two step, Morse holding his trousers up with one hand. The walk to the car – all ten feet of it – was agony. Worse than when he’d been stabbed – this time his hip felt almost like it had been shattered, and shards of fiery pain stabbed their way down his leg.

 

Thursday managed to manoeuvre him into the passenger seat with a minimum of fuss, and then Morse sat as still as possible for a minute, eyes closed and panting as he fought not to throw up.

 

“Morse,” came a quiet voice, and then broad fingertips feathering across his brow. “Morse?”

 

He made a choked noise of protest when Thursday tried to get him to open his eyes, and the other man withdrew. There was the creak of leather as Thursday sat back in his own seat, and the drumming sound of his fingers against the wheel.

 

Then, “Sod it, you’re going to the hospital.”

 

“No,” Morse rasped, and forced his eyes open. “I’m fine. Just felt a bit sick for a moment. Sorry.”

 

“A blind man could see you were one step from falling over, Morse, and you already used that step up. You’re not going anywhere like this.”

 

“I won’t have to do much. I’ll just sit here, and then when we get there I’ll sit there. No different to if I was at the hospital.”

 

“They’d at least see to it properly!” Thursday huffed, and then contented himself with, “At least the bullet didn’t get stuck in you.”

 

Morse hadn’t known that; had vaguely assumed it was still lodged somewhere inside him. The thought of a long hole through him made him more than a bit queasy.

 

“Right,” Thursday said decisively. “I’ll take you home. Get you changed, and if you can make it through that…”

 

“I will,” interjected Morse.

 

“ _If_  you make it through that, then alright.”

 

The journey felt long and agonising, and Morse was reminded again and again of the drive after he’d been stabbed, of the jolt of the car every time they went over a pothole. “Sorry,” Thursday kept muttering, “sorry.”

 

Thursday opened the car door for him, and very firmly said “If you can’t walk up this drive, then you won’t be able to walk up that one either.”

 

The door flew open before they were halfway up Thursday’s drive, Win rushing out to meet them with her hand over her mouth.

 

“What’s happened? Are you alright, love? What happened?”

 

“I’m fine,” Morse managed tersely. Then, “Got shot,” and realised too late he shouldn’t have told her that.

 

“He’s not alright,” Thursday said dryly beside him. “Nearly gave the ambulance drivers a fit when he tried to escape their clutches.”

 

“Oh, _Endeavour!_ ”

 

“He’ll be fine,” Thursday added reassuringly, “as long as he gets some rest and gets it seen too. His father’s very ill though; lad wants to get to him.”

 

“Oh, Fred,” and looking up, half blinded by pain, Morse saw tears in her eyes which weren’t just caused by his sudden appearance.

 

Once he was sat on a chair in the dining room – ‘I’d just bleed on the sofa’ – and the two of them stepped outside to get him some clothes, Morse gradually wound down the muscles he’d been holding locked in place. He breathed in carefully, and then out again. He stood, excruciatingly slowly, supporting himself on the table, and managed a few shuffling steps.

 

It hurt, but he could do it.

 

He turned just as Thursday came through the door, holding a pair of trousers and a shirt. “You left these here for mending,” Thursday said, voice a bit rough, and Morse remembered catching the trousers on a fence post a couple of weeks prior. The shirt was one of Sam’s.

 

“Thanks,” he said, and reached for them.

 

“Here, I’ll –“

 

“No,” Morse said, and nudged away the hand that came to unbutton his bloody shirt. “It’s like you said – if I can’t do this…”

 

Thursday hummed, unconvinced, and watched him for a moment. “I’ll be just outside, if you need me,” he said, and moved away at Morse’s nod.

 

As soon as he was out of sight, Morse put down the clothes and strained his ears. There was a weight on Thursday’s face now which hadn’t been there when they arrived, and between him and Win…

 

“Who called about him?” he heard, hushed in the hall. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

 

“I tried work, but they said you were out. I’ve been trying since lunch!”

 

“Dammit. Alright, I can be there in less than an hour if I leave now. If he’s…”

 

The voices faded slightly as they moved down the hall, and Morse considered his options. Each of them had an obligation to their own family, and the two were mutually exclusive. If he tied to stubbornly insist on going without Thursday’s help, Thursday would shut him down hard.

 

So when Thursday reappeared in the door, Morse was sitting in the chair with the clothes laid aside on the table. He gave Thursday a pained half-smile and said “I’m not bad, but I think it’s a good idea if I sit for a bit before I go.”

 

Relief washed over Thursday’s face like a wave. “Alright, lad, you stay here and rest. I’m just going to nip out for little while; Win can take care of you while I’m gone. If you start feeling even the slightest bit worse, mind, you’re to call an ambulance.”

 

Win was given strict instructions to watch him like a hawk in case he started feeling worse, but the time she was in the kitchen making him a cup of tea was long enough for him to painfully struggle into the other pair of trousers. He had to stop and rest a few times, and swallow hard to clamp down on the nausea, but he managed.

 

She came back in as he was getting his arm through a sleeve, trying not to twist too much, and he didn’t waste time feeling self-conscious.

 

“We both know that I’m going,” he said, hoping that putting enough confidence in his voice would make it true.

 

She eyed him for a moment. “We both know that a stiff breeze could knock you over, love.” He wondered if she was the stiff breeze in this scenario.

 

“Then it’ll have to knock me over. He’s dying, and my sister needs me to go.”

 

Her eyes softened a bit. “I didn’t know it was that bad,” she said sympathetically.

 

“I missed one train at lunch,” he said. “I should have been there already. What if I’m too late?”

 

She crossed her arms tight across her chest, and an indecisive look crept over her face.  “I-“

 

“I’ll tell Thursday I snuck out,” he added quickly.

 

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” she said fondly. “I’ll take you myself.”

 

Morse gaped at her, fingers pausing in their haphazard attempt to do up shirt buttons. “What?”

 

“I’ll take you,” she repeated.

 

“But what about Sam?”

 

She eyed him for a moment, obviously wondering how he’d known. “Fred will take care of Sam,” she said. “And that leaves me to take care of you. Let me just get the keys. The map should already be in the car. And I’ll just put the tea in a flask…”

 

He stared after her as she wandered out into the hallway again, feeling a little as though he’d been pulled into an alternate version of reality. After a few seconds her “Need a hand, love?” floated back from the kitchen, and he returned to hurriedly doing up the shirt.

 

“No,” he called back. Then, belatedly, “Thanks!”

 

Walking back to the car didn’t seem to be as bad as coming in to the house, and he could slowly limp his way along with only a little support from Win. Which was good, because although she had a wiry strength to her she was very slight. He tended not to realise how short she was, because she was such a strong presence in the house, but it was brought home now when he practically had to stoop down to get his arm around her.

 

He settled into the seat with a sigh, and wondered if he could get away with sleeping during the journey. He tried not to think about what he would have to face at the other end of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one was going to be short compared to the first in the series. But it's... growing. Quite a lot. We're not even half way through I don't think.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Win takes Morse home for his father's death.

He did end up dozing for half the journey – as soon as they made it out of Oxford and onto bigger, smoother roads. He woke with a half-cry and jerk which made him clench his teeth in pain, and Win glanced over at him with open concern. “You alright, love?”

 

“I – yes, fine.” Morse attempted to straighten himself in the seat a little, and brushed sweat-damp hair back from his forehead. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

 

“It’s exactly what you should be doing,” Win said, with a faint air of reprimand. “In a bed.” When he opened his mouth to argue, she shook her head and said, “I know, I know. And I’m not saying you’re doing the wrong thing, I’m just worried about you. How do you feel?”

 

Very cautiously he moved his fingers down to his hip and gingerly placed them against the bandage. “Sore,” he said hoarsely.

 

“You would tell me, wouldn’t you, if it was really bad? Fred would never forgive me if something happened to you.”

 

Morse contemplated this. It was one thing to take a risk himself, to say it was worth it, but it was another to put that kind of responsibility upon her. He very carefully catalogued the way that he was feeling – the pain in his side and leg, the cold, waxy feel of the skin on his face now that the heat from before had dissipated.

 

“I think I’m alright,” he said slowly. “I would tell you. I’ll talk to the doctor at the house, I promise.”

 

She nodded, not taking her eyes off the road, and he thought she looked reassured.

 

“Where are we, anyway?” he asked, dragging his eyes over the scenery passing them by.

 

“About two thirds of the way there, I think. I’ll need you to get the map out – it’s on the back seat.”

 

The stretch to reach it made his muscles clench in pain, and he took a moment to adjust his expression before he faced forward again. “Right,” he said.

 

They found their way, not getting lost once. They didn’t talk about Morse’s father, or about him moving out. They didn’t talk about Sam. The silence was strangely comfortable, nonetheless, and he was reminded all over again that Win without her husband was a wonderful, calming person to be around. That she was her own entity, and not just a part of Thursday and Win.

 

They pulled up, and he unfastened his seatbelt. The front door of the house loomed large in his vision, full of weighty unknowns. 

 

“Thank you,” he murmured absently. “I’ll be fine from here. I can take the train home.”

 

A little indignant huff broke his stare, brought him around to look at her disbelieving expression.

 

“Even if I would let you go in on your own without worrying about you falling over, I need to phone home.”

 

Morse cursed himself for his thoughtlessness. “Of course, I’m sorry,” he said, words fumbling over each other. “I wasn’t-“

 

“Thinking. I know, love, I know. Let’s go on then.”

 

They made it to the front door, him under his own power this time. The pain was an ugly, loud throb through his body, but he was able to push it down more now, and manage despite it. He had no choice, he had to get through this.

 

He knocked.

 

It was an elderly neighbour who opened the door, who looked him over blankly for half a minute before belated recognition set in. “Oh, you’re his boy, aren’t you?”

 

Morse gave a tight smile, and pushed past her into the house, Win trailing behind him.

 

Gwen was in the parlour, just looking up to say “Who was it?” when he walked in. Her eyes immediately hardened, but that didn’t completely conceal the lost expression in them.

 

“Am I-?“ But his tongue couldn’t make the words. _Too late_.

 

Gwen didn’t answer him, her eyes flicking past him entirely. “And who’s this?” she asked, voice chilly.

 

“This is Mrs Winnifred Thursday,” he replied stiffly. “A friend.”

 

“Endeavour’s been injured, so I drove him up.” Win came forward a little, her entire manner broadcasting empathy. “I’m sorry to intrude on you at such a time. Is there anything I can do to help?”

 

Gwen’s face didn’t soften, and Morse felt bad that Win was being judged for her association with him.

 

“Injured?” Her gaze cut back to him, and her tone was scornful. “Convenient.”

 

His cheeks flushed with heat, an accomplishment when the rest of him felt shaky and cold, and he opened his mouth to snap something quick tempered.

 

“Yes,” Win inserted quietly. “He was shot in the line of duty earlier today, but he insisted he had to come to be with his father, so I brought him.”

 

That put an end to Gwen’s assertions, though her lips pursed in displeasure. “You might as well not have bothered,” she said to Morse. “He’s unconscious now, and the doctor says he probably won’t wake again.”

 

Morse considered and discarded a number of responses to this. “I’ll go and see him,” he said.

 

“I wonder if I might trouble you to use your telephone,” he heard Win ask as he turned. “I should phone my husband and let him know we made it safely.”

 

The stairs stretched in front of him, and he stood at the bottom of them staring up. The same neighbour that had let them in emerged from the kitchen carrying a tea tray, and gave him a quick nod.

 

He gripped the old bannister, and painfully made his way up one step at a time.

 

Joyce was sitting in a chair beside the bed – he smiled for a moment to see that it was his mother’s old favourite chair before the expression swept of his face in a wave of guilt. How could he smile while his father lay right there, dying?

 

“Joyce,” he said quietly; she hadn’t noticed him come in. She gave a start, whole body flinching with surprise as her head whipped round.

 

“Oh, _Endeavour_!” she said, and her voice sounded hollow from having run out of tears.

 

“I’m so sorry, Joyce.”

 

He moved closer, since she hadn’t risen, and reached down to clasp the hand she raised in his direction. She gripped his fingers tightly, and he gave a gentle squeeze.

 

“He looks so…” She bowed her head and shook it. “He was trying to speak, before. But the words that came out were nonsense. I don’t even know if he recognised me.”

 

He bent and pressed a kiss to her hair. “Let me get a chair.”

 

The absence of another beside the bed suggested that Gwen hadn’t been sitting here; but then his step-mother had always despised useless actions. ‘Timewasting,’ she’d always called it, if there wasn’t something constructive to be accomplished. Morse dragged the chair from the other side of the room rather than lifting it, careful of his side, and sat beside his sister. He didn’t see how sitting with her while she was upset could ever be a waste of time.

 

She reached for his hand again, and they sat for a while in silence.

 

“The doctor said he’d call back in an hour or two,” she said thickly, and he saw that she was crying again. At his look she raised her free hand and swiped at the tears. “Sorry, it’s just you being here…”

 

He understood. Sometimes sympathy was exactly what set you off. He squeezed her hand.

 

”How long?”

 

She shrugged; he felt the motion run down her arm and into his. “Don’t know. The doctor said he probably – probably won’t last the…” Her voice broke, and she inhaled a rapid breath.

 

Morse had never felt so helpless. He stared down at the shrunken, frail looking form on the bed, and felt a well of emptiness inside him. He didn’t even know what he was feeling.

 

“Endeavour?”

 

His head turned slowly to find Win standing in the doorway, her kind, warm face looking completely incongruous in this house. His sister looked up too, bewildered.

 

“I’ve brought you two a cup of tea,” Win said, and his eyes dropped to the cups she was holding.

 

His throat was suddenly tight, and he cleared it twice before he could speak. “This is my friend, Win Thursday. Win, this is my sister, Joyce.”

 

Win gave Joyce a comforting smile. “I’ve heard so much about you. I’m sorry we couldn’t meet under better circumstances.”

 

Joyce nodded, still looking confused. She clearly wanted to ask what Win was doing there, but couldn’t think of a polite way to do so. “How do you two know each other?” she asked instead.

 

Morse didn’t even know where to start with that.

 

“It started through my husband – he and Morse work together. But we get on very well. I like to think we understand each other,” Win said, and her eyes were fixed on Morse as she said it.  She looked back at Joyce. “I was worried about him taking the train alone, what with the injury, so I drove him up here.”

 

Morse closed his eyes; he could feel his sister’s surprised stare burning on the side of his face.

 

“Injury?” she asked - hushed, worried.

 

“It’s-“ _Nothing_ , he would have said, but Win broke in exactly as she had downstairs.

 

“He was shot this morning,” she said firmly. Then, at his sister’s shocked gasp, “I’m sure he’ll be fine, but he needs taking care of.”

 

“It’s alright, Joyce,” he said. “I’ll talk to the doctor when he gets here. They patched me up before I left.”

 

“Shot?” she said, her voice hushed but penetrating. “ _Shot?_ ”

 

“It’s just my hip. Leave it, Joycey,” he added quickly. “Please.”

 

She subsided, and took the tea with a murmured thank you from Win when she brought it over.

 

Win asked after their father, and Joyce told her all the things she’d told Morse; more, in fact, the way you do when you’re explaining things to a stranger. Win was a wonderful listener, and reached out and gave Joyce a hug whenever she felt she needed one. That almost made Morse smile too, but somehow his lips couldn’t make the right shape at the moment.

 

When his sister went silent again, Morse set his cup aside and quietly asked Win, “Did you manage to talk to him?”

 

“Yes, love, I did. Everything’s alright.”

 

“Everything?”

 

She nodded, and he exhaled in relief. His sister didn’t notice, swept up again in contemplation of the figure on the bed.

 

A moment later there was a movement at the doorway, and they all looked up simultaneously to find Gwen standing there. She ignored all of them equally, making her way to stand beside the bed, and Win rose from the chair she’d been sitting in.

 

“Endeavour, maybe you could help me with a few things out at the car?”

 

He’d thought that she wanted to give his sister and step-mother a bit of time and space, but he realised as soon as they stepped out into the fresh air, going slowly in deference to his injury, that of course she was  _leaving_.

 

“It’s too late to drive back,” he said instantly. “You’re very welcome to stay here, or I’ll find somewhere for you.”

 

She gave him an affectionate look. “I couldn’t possibly intrude.”

 

“But you hate driving in the dark.” It had to be past eight o clock already; she wouldn’t make it home until midnight.

 

“I’ll be alright, love, and I really need to go.”

 

He stepped closer, took both her hands. “What’s happened? Is Sam alright?”

 

She took a quick breath, seeming on the edge of tears. “Yes, yes he’s alright. Fred went and got him; they’re both back home.”

 

Morse released a long breath, and leaned back against the body of the car feeling as though all of his strings had been cut. “Thank God.”

 

She waited a moment, then, “Endeavour?”

 

When he looked at her he found her face full of fear and love and understanding. “Yes?”

 

“There couldn’t be a worse time for this conversation, with your father so ill, but I think we need to have it anyway.”

 

He straightened at the seriousness of her tone, ignoring the pull at his side. “I don’t-“

 

“No, shush, love. Let me talk first.” Her eyes sought his and waited for the acknowledging tilt of his head. “Things have got like this because we haven’t talked enough, and I won’t let it carry on. Now, I know what I think has happened, but then Fred thought he knew too and apparently he couldn’t have got that more wrong if he tried, so I need you to actually tell me. So,” she met his eyes bravely, “you left because you weren’t getting what you needed with him, yes?”

 

Morse instinctively started to deny it, to say that he’d done it for them, that he’d not wanted to keep making things awkward when there was no need for him to be there. He stopped short though, words half formed, because in the end she was right. It had been about his own pain, his own selfish needs. He hadn’t been able to be there and not  _have_  Thursday the way that he wanted.

 

Win must have been tracing the progress of his thoughts, because she nodded as though he’d spoken aloud. “Alright then, so things have to change. None of us is alright with you just separating yourself, himself least of all. He’s been a wreck since you left. He loves you,” she added softly, and Morse hunched over instinctively, as though her words had been a blow. “He does,” she said again, and there wasn’t anger or sadness or accusation. It was just a fact. Apparently one that she’d come to terms with while he wasn’t looking.

 

“I don’t-“

 

“I said once that I thought maybe I should just step aside, let you two be happy together.” A roaring dizziness filled Morse’s head, and he blindly reached his hand to support himself on the car as he slowly slid down it to sit on the hard, cold pavement. His vision seemed blurred, but he could see her face hovering beside him – she must have crouched down.

 

“No,” he whispered, and it was impossible to convey all of the horror and sadness and shame he felt at the thought.

 

“No,” she agreed sadly, and until her palm stroked across his cheek he had no idea that there were tears. “But you two do need to be together, in a way that you haven’t been because I’m right there. Fred wasn’t happy with the amount of time you two were getting together, but I think he didn’t want to upset me, and he said that you seemed so alright with everything that he didn’t want to rock the boat.”

 

Morse let out a choked laugh. It sounded more than slightly despairing.

 

“He can be a little dense, can our Fred,” she confided. His eyes had cleared a bit and he watched her twist her hands in front of her, the way she did when she was nervous. “But I – I’ve been more than wilfully blind. I’m just as bad as him; worse, even. I knew how unhappy you were, but I  _liked_ having you there, and I so wanted us all to work as a family…”

 

“Not your fault,” he managed, and tilted his head back to rest it against cold metal.

 

She said nothing for a minute, and gradually he felt his body loudly start to register its discomfort.

 

“You were right,” she started slowly. “That for a moment, after you’d left, I thought… I don’t know. Thought that things might be able to go back, to how they had been. That we could all pretend it had never happened.”

 

He closed his eyes with a grimace. “I know,” he said quietly.

 

“But, Endeavour, look at me, that didn’t last ten minutes. We’re not the same people we were a few months ago, and our family has changed. Nothing can go magically back to the way it was before; you’re a part of this, now.”

 

He _hmmed_ non-committally.

 

“It wasn’t right,” she continued. “Not having your smile about the place. You weren’t there to help me about the house, and listen to me ramble on. To counter some of Joan’s ‘opinions’ at dinner, to pull Sam out of his sulks.” She took a deep breath. “I missed having you there to give Fred insolent looks when he was being grumpy.”

 

The corner of Morse’s lips twitched, but he stared resolutely down and away, trying to let the barrage of words flow over him.

 

“But you and Fred need to be a proper couple. To feel like you can hold hands in front of all of us, and kiss goodnight and… and stay together, all night. So I’m going away.”

 

His eyes snapped up, and he half raised his hand. “No-“

 

“For a few weeks, to stay with my sister. Spend some time with my nieces and nephews.”

 

“No!”

 

“Stop it,” she said, and he reined back his response. She watched him for a moment, as though checking he’d calmed down a bit. “It wasn’t long enough, the time you had before. The time that we had apart before being mashed back together. We all tried to fit comfortably into our old roles, but just squeeze you in, and you needed more than that. We all care about you, love, we want you to be happy.”

 

He shook his head, said “But Sam and Joan-“

 

“Will be fine. Not sure what Joan will do, but she’s old enough to decide for herself. She can stay or move out, as she likes. And Fred said Sam has something sorted for the summer – there wasn’t much chance to talk about it on the phone though.”

 

“But-“

 

“He’ll be coming up to stay with you, or pick you up. Probably not tomorrow, but the day after. I’m -  I’m sorry that I can’t stay longer, love. I’d like to be here with you. But I really need to get back to Sam.”

 

He nodded agreement to the last part before his brain caught up with the rest, and then shook it again. The motion was slow, though, tired, as though he couldn’t summon up the fight anymore.

 

“I’m so sorry, love, about your father. About having to deal with this on top of it. But I couldn’t let it go anymore, not if you might have another turn like you did before.”

 

An involuntary blush crept over his cheeks at the reminder of his time at DeBryn’s house – when he’d been so worried about the future and their bond that he’d literally made himself sick.

 

“It wouldn’t – I’ve been careful,” he said, and her look turned sorrowful.

 

“Oh, love.” She leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead, and then laid her hand on his arm. “Let’s get you up. It certainly can’t be good for you to be on the floor like this.”

 

“And you should be going,” he mumbled, numb.        

 

“And I should be going,” she agreed, and between them they got him back on his feet.

 

She gave him a thorough hug, checked the car over and got in; the map within easy reach. “Don’t worry about anything else for the moment,” she said sternly. “Not any of it. And call us if you need anything before Fred gets here. Now, you take care of yourself, and make sure that you see that doctor, you hear me?”

 

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

And she was gone, the car lights fading off into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter - a proper conversation between Morse and Thursday. It's only been... however many chapters in coming.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morse's father dies, and Thursday and Morse have a long overdue talk.

Feeling a bit poleaxed, he limped his way back into the house. As though Win leaving was the trigger - or, more likely, his brief sojourn on the ground – he became aware all over again that his body ached as though he’d run a marathon, and he had to rest against the wall for a moment before entering.

 

Gwen was back downstairs again, just getting off the phone. “The doctor’s on his way,” she said shortly, and he nodded.

 

When he was sat beside Joyce again, Morse thought about other things in his life he might have been fooling himself about. Not telling her about the bond, for example. It wasn’t to avoid burdening her. Not even entirely because he hadn’t wanted her parents to know. It was selfish. Because he hadn’t wanted to answer questions about it. Because he didn’t know what the answers were.

 

He drew in a breath, and without thinking it through any further said, “I’m in a bond. Another one. He’s married though; that was his wife. The family’s… really nice, but we haven’t figured things out yet.”

 

Her stare, when he turned to meet it, was completely incredulous. “What?” she said, as though he’d chosen a stupid moment to pull a prank on her.

 

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before,” and the words were coming out more easily now. “I was… I don’t see any way it can end alright, and after the last time…” He shrugged. “I didn’t want your pity.”

 

She glanced away, down at the man lying still on the bed, and then back at him. “A bond?”

 

“Yes. Another friend of mine – well, he’s the pathologist, actually – says that he thinks it’s fixed some of the problems that were left from… before.”

 

Her gaze turned inwards. “So that’s why,” she murmured, and he shrugged. “You’ve been so much better. Like for a while you were someone else, and then suddenly I had you back.”

 

Morse scratched self-consciously at the back of his neck. “Anyway,” he said, already regretting telling her, “I just – wanted to tell you.”

 

Joyce smiled at him, worn eyes lightening a little. “Thank you,” she said sincerely. “Don’t ever feel like you have to hide things from me. We have to stick together, you know.” A moment later, “And don’t worry, I won’t tell Mum.”

 

His sigh was slightly more relieved than he’d meant it to be, and she laughed, carefree for a moment before a look of shattered grief towards the bed.

 

He reached out to take her hand again. “I know,” he said.

 

\-----------------------

 

Morse woke to the sound of birdsong. He scrunched up his eyes against the shards of sunlight falling across his face, and then blinked exaggeratedly several times to try and force himself awake. He started to stretch, body stiff from the position in the chair he’d been sleeping in, and froze after the first inch, his side cramping in pain.

 

He hadn’t even talked to DeBryn since he’d been shot, but he still heard the man’s voice in his head clear as day, lecturing him. “A piece of metal went straight through your muscles; you have to let it  _heal_ , Morse.”

 

A quick glance at the bed showed his father hadn’t moved, so he levered himself carefully out of the chair, supporting himself afterwards with a hand on the back of it. Breathed in and out through the pain. It was just pain, he told himself, only pain. After a minute the rolling waves retreated into the same steady ache he remembered from the evening before. He took an experimental step towards the window, looking out at the dappled light coming through the branches of the old apple tree. Another small step, and some instinct, some  _recognition_ clicked.

 

He stopped, feet suddenly as heavy as lead, and then forced himself to turn, forced himself to look again.

 

His father’s face was slack, grey. It didn’t seem so different from the way it had been just yesterday, but Morse had seen enough of death now to  _know_.

 

He breathed out, and found that it was almost impossible to breathe in again.

 

Time seemed to slow and warp for a minute He heard the soft noises of Joyce’s breathing, heard a clang from the kitchen downstairs, but time didn’t restart until he sucked in his next breath all at once, feeling as though he’d been deprived of oxygen for an hour.

 

He sat down in the chair again, unable to trust his ability to stand upright, and stared. For two minutes, maybe, he watched with minute attention to see if he could see a rise and fall of breath; if he could convince himself he’d been mistaken. Eventually reality seeped in, the immediate denial which his mind had thrown up to protect itself bleeding away and acknowledging that he’d been right.

 

His father was dead.

 

His eyes jerked around the room, his thoughts scattered and disorganised. He despised the gaping chasm that opened in his chest even as he was helpless to control it. He’d _hated_  his father, for a long time. Hated the way he’d behaved, hated the way he’d made Morse feel. Even with distance and acceptance and tolerance, that hatred had never entirely snuffed out; old grudges flaring at the drop of a hat.

 

His head came to rest in his hands, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. He felt as though some heavy weight upon him, some giant rock resting on his chest, should have been lifted, but if anything it seemed his world had splintered further.

 

_What do I do now_ , his thoughts repeated in ceaseless circles.  _What do I do now_?

 

He’d have to look after Gwen and Joyce, make sure they were taken care of. He could move back up here, he supposed, though that would crush the life out of him soon enough and Christ, he didn’t want to, but he wasn’t sure what else…

 

But _Thursday_ , and what Win had said about moving out and giving them space, and everything a complete tangle of disastrous proportions…

 

He let out a small, choked breath, and though he immediately clamped his lips back together it had been enough to wake his sister.

 

“Mum?” she asked, blinking her eyes open, and then, “Endeavour?” 

 

She saw his face, and she knew.

 

\-------------------

 

That day everything and nothing happened all at once. They came to take the body away, and Gwen had to call everybody to let them know, and then there was a steady procession of neighbours and friends and Gwen’s family. The local priest, Father Terrence, spent most of the day with them. Morse vaguely recognised his face from when he’d been staying here after Susan – a well-intentioned man but one who didn’t know how to express himself beyond sermons from what he could remember. That impression was soon proved true.

 

So much activity, but also so much sitting around, endlessly hearing other people talk about what _they_  thought. He wanted it to be  _done_ , but the most that happened was discussing what should be in the obituary and possible dates for the funeral. Despite lacking any appetite, Morse had food pushed on him by all comers, and after the fifth encounter had taken to holding a plate of something at all times as a defence mechanism.

 

He thought he might go mad.

 

\-----------------

 

Evening came, and eventually even the hardiest of well-wishers said their goodbyes.

 

He snuck off to change the dressing on his wound with some trepidation. It took him several minutes to pluck up the necessary courage to unwrap the bandages - his mind imagining all sorts of horrors underneath. When he finally persuaded himself to look down, breath shallow and swallowing convulsively, he found no rivers of blood, no gaping wound. Indeed, the entry hole was so small that it seemed impossible it should be causing him so much pain – he couldn’t quite see the exit one, as twisting was too painful and the mirror set too high. He stared at it for a minute; just a swollen reddened pucker with a few stiches in it. More impressive were the deep, dark bruises blossoming across his hip – he prodded tentatively around the wound and then had to grab on to the sink so as not to faint. He bit his lip, cursed himself for an idiot, and fumbled for fresh bandages.

 

After he emerged again, the next problem arose. He’d slept the night before on the chair without thinking about it, but suddenly realised that there was nowhere for him to stay anymore – his old room had long been made over into a study, and the couch in the living room was far too short for him.

 

He eyed the floor with some trepidation.

 

“Don’t be silly,” Joyce said when she realised the problem. “I’ll fit on the sofa; I don’t have your freakishly long legs. And don’t even bother arguing, you know it makes sense. You with your leg and all,” and she nodded at his hip.

 

The doctor had had a quick look when he came late the previous day, said Morse was unlikely to die of it but that there wasn’t much that  _he_  could do, and told him to get it looked at properly. Morse wasn’t exactly sure what else needed doing to it – he’d been stitched up, surely it just needed time to heal now?

 

“Alright,” he agreed, because honestly he couldn’t see an alternative, and slept uneasily in a bed that was too soft and smelt of lilacs.

 

\-------------------

 

When Morse opened the door and found Thursday standing on the doorstep late the next morning, he did an almost comedic double take. He didn’t know if the thought had just got lost amongst everything else of the previous day, or if he’d genuinely not expected Thursday to show up.

 

Thursday took in his reaction, and began to turn his hat in his hands, looking uncomfortable. “I should have rung,” he said uncertainly. “I thought Win said-“

 

“No,” Morse said, glancing behind him quickly and then stepping out and drawing the door closed behind him. “No, I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”

 

He gestured to the side of the house, and Thursday followed him silently round the path that led to the back garden. There was a patch of it mostly concealed from the windows of the house behind a hedge, and he took a seat on one of the metal garden chairs there with a sigh.

 

“How are you?” Thursday asked, voice a bit gruff, and moved to sit beside him. They looked out over a small bed of rose bushes just starting to bud, and Morse tried to push aside tiredness and pain to focus on Thursday.

 

“I don’t know,” he said wearily.

 

There was the whispering sound of cloth as Thursday leant forward and rested his hands on his knees. “No,” Thursday said. “That’s alright, lad. More specifically, how’s the wound?”

 

Morse shrugged. “It’s alright I think. The doctor here said there wasn’t much more he could do. I’m supposed to get it looked at by… I’m not sure who, actually.”

 

“You been alright changing the dressings?”

 

Morse thought of the awkward contortions in the bathroom yesterday, the way he’d been unable to ask anyone for help. The doctor had done it for him, that first day, when he’d kept his eyes fixed across the room the whole time. “Not great,” he admitted, “but I managed.”

 

Thursday snorted, and then cleared his throat. “And, ah, your father?”

 

“He, uh, he passed away. During the night – no, I don’t mean this morning. The first night I was here. Yesterday was…” he paused, unable to think of the right word.

 

“I’m sorry, Morse.”

 

Morse bobbed his head in acknowledgement, and scrubbed a hand across his face. “And Sam?” he asked. “Win said that he was alright, that you’d found him?”

 

“Yes, I found him – Joan was right, the little scrap had run off to join the army. They saw right through him, of course, realised he wasn’t old enough. An old buddy of mine kept an ear out after I got in touch with him, and let me know when he turned up.”

 

“So he’s-“

 

“Fine. Back home, and all in one piece.”

 

“Good,” Morse said. “Good. I was worried, when I left.”

 

He saw Thursday grimace out of the corner of his eye. “That would be when you were feeling so bad that you thought you should just sit down for a bit?”

 

“I-“

 

“Because you can imagine my surprise to finally drag one member of my family home only to find another two had gone missing! What were you thinking?” Thursday said, building up steam. “Running off like that? Lying to my face, so as I wouldn’t be able to-“

 

“To what?” Morse cut in. “To talk me out of it?”

 

“To do  _something_ ,” Thursday said harshly. “To not have you travelling up all this way by yourself with a hole in you – don’t think I don’t know that’s what you were planning.  _Thank God_  for my Win – though why she didn’t just wait for me I can’t understand!”

 

“I _had_ to come,” Morse said.

 

“And a couple of hours would have made a difference, would it?” Immediately he’d spoken, Thursday seemed to regret the words. He winced, and made an apologetic face.

 

Morse sighed. “You’re not angry with her?” he checked.

 

Thursday echoed the sigh, and scrubbed a hand over his face. “No, no of course not. Sensible of her to take care of you rather than letting you run off half cocked. Morse, I-“

 

Morse waited a moment, but the frown on Thursday’s face suggested he wouldn’t continue the thought.

 

“I’m sorry I worried you,” Morse said.

 

“Of course you are.” Thursday let out a long breath. “Didn’t stop you doing it, though, did it?” Morse gave a one-sided shrug, and Thursday sighed again. “I’m getting tired of getting notes from my family telling me they’ve run off.”

 

Morse glanced at Thursday out of the corner of his eye, and wondered if Win had mentioned her ‘going away’ plan to him. He couldn’t picture that going down well.

 

They sat quietly for a while, Morse’s mind unable to settle, and he fidgeted until Thursday’s warm, broad hand settled over his own.

 

“Lad,” Thursday started sympathetically, and the urge to melt into the concern he heard contrarily triggered an equally strong instinct to  _run_.

 

Thursday didn’t let him go, though, rising as quickly as he did and transferring his grip to Morse’s shoulder. “What are you thinking?”

 

Morse dropped his head, let out a quick, harsh breath. He stayed stubbornly silent.

 

A second passed, two, and Thursday moved in closer. Morse could almost feel his eyes searching over Morse’s face. “Morse.” The hand on his shoulder rubbed gently down his arm, moving until it was around him, inexorably pulling him in.

 

After a moment, Thursday leaned in so that their foreheads rested together. It was as though a warm cocoon of safety enveloped Morse, and just for a minute let himself revel in it, let himself have this. He needed it right now, more badly than he could say.

 

Then, “I’m sorry,” Morse said miserably.

 

A puff of breath against his cheek. “What are you sorry for?”

 

“Everything’s so… I’ve managed to make such a hash of things.”

 

Because where were they now, really, except exactly where they’d been all those months ago? The two of them stumbling around, not telling each other anything, hurting each other, hurting Thursday’s family.

 

It was exactly like Morse’s fears, yes, but slowly Morse was wondering how much of it was _because_ of his fears.

 

“No, lad,” Thursday said quietly. “I think we’ve all managed to do that.” He shifted slightly, and brushed his lips against Morse’s forehead. “I’m all wrong for you. You don’t trust me, don’t even feel like you can talk to me – and who’d want this old pile of bones, eh? I can – no, don’t cry. For the love of God, Morse, don’t cry.”

 

“I’m not,” Morse said, and was absolutely sure of it until he heard the hitch in his own voice. Twice in three days, that was, and neither of those times had been for the death of his father. “Oh, God,” he muttered, and tried to pull away, but Thursday was having none of it.

 

“Oh no,” Thursday said firmly. “You’re staying right here. I’m not so horrible that you won’t accept a bit of comfort from me, am I Morse?”

 

It was a joke, and yet Morse heard the self-doubt as clearly as a bell. “I’m sorry,” Morse said, and stepped into Thursday rather than away. Thursday’s arms wrapped around him, tugged him in close, and Morse let the comfort seep right in to his bones. “Thank you,” he added a minute later. Thursday showed no sign of letting go.

 

“I always feel like I’m fighting ghosts with you,” Thursday said gravely into his ear. “So many that I never know what to say, or how to help.”

 

“I was thinking,” Morse started, and then cut himself off. Thursday waited, and after a few seconds Morse could feel him start to withdraw, disappointed. “I was thinking about how things are different with you,” Morse forced himself to say. Thursday settled, arms still around him, and listened. “About how – how I feel I’m just waiting for you to realise I have no place in your life, and get tired of me. That you don’t need me, because you already have a family, but I need you. That when I was with Susan we were just… normal with each other, but with you all I feel like I’m constantly trying to impress you, to justify my… Oh, I don’t know,” he said wretchedly. He turned his face to the side, and regretted his words.

 

“No, hush. Alright,” and there was a pause as Thursday thought things through. “So you felt like you didn’t have a secure place with us. With me. And you and I weren’t – weren’t alright with the amount of time we had together, and the way we were.” Morse shook his head a little where it rested against the side of Thursday’s. “No, no we weren’t. I wasn’t either.” And when he felt Morse’s start of surprise Thursday added, “You must have seen that. You must have known? No? Well, I suppose maybe we’re as bad as each other for not talking.”

 

Then, “Endeavour, why did you leave the house?”

 

And this was the talk that they’d never had, the one he’d promised Thursday before they got so swept up in things that there was no time for them at all.

 

“I just thought… It was – I just couldn’t,” he said, switching tracks. “Being around you all the time, but not really having… And seeing your family crack apart because I was there. So when we could sleep apart again I thought maybe it would be-“

 

“What?” Thursday interrupted him, and pulled back so that Morse could see the crease between his brows deepen in a frown.

 

“Your family,” Morse repeated hesitantly.

 

“No, not that, the other thing.”

 

“When we could get to sleep again?” Morse said. “Without the other person being there.”

 

“And when was that, then?” Thursday asked slowly.

 

“A few nights before I left. You were late coming up and I just fell asleep. So I thought – and then it happened the night before I left.”

 

He listened to Thursday breathe for a moment, and tried to judge the dark look in his eyes.

 

“And you’ve been alright, since?” Thursday asked, an edge to his voice that made Morse blink. “Able to sleep, I mean?”

 

Morse hesitated. “Not well. Not always. But then I wasn’t really before, either.”

 

Thursday drew back all the way, pulling his arms away and bringing one hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

 

“I see,” Thursday said finally. “So you managed to sleep by yourself for a night, and decided that meant we must be all fine and dandy, and you could take off without so much as a by-your-leave and expect me to just be fine!”

 

Morse looked nervously over his shoulder towards the house in case anyone might have heard, and Thursday reached out and cuffed the back of his head, cupping the nape of his neck to bring his head back around. “Lookat me.  _I_ wasn’t alright Morse. _I_ couldn’t sleep. I’m taking enough sleeping pills to put a horse under and I can still barely get a couple of hours a night. And worry for you has been driving me half crazy. It’s a miracle Win hasn’t asked for a divorce anyway, the way I’ve been the last couple of weeks.”

 

Morse just stared, heart thudding furiously in his chest, unable to take in what Thursday was saying.

 

“Inclined to be dense about this, are you? Let me spell it out for you. I need you, you great turnip, so you don’t get to run away because you’re scared. If you’re having a problem, I’m probably having it too,” Thursday growled.

 

“But you were so happy with the way that things were,” Morse said, stung, and then, prompted by some unkind impulse, “Having your cake and eating it too.”

 

The hand at the back of Morse’s neck squeezed hard and then disappeared, Thursday taking two steps back and looking like he wanted to punch someone.

 

“I was not happy, Morse,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “Win and I were so desperate to make you feel at home, to welcome you. And her heart breaking, all the while. What the hell was I supposed to do?”

 

“In what possible version of reality was it alright for you to come to bed with me for two hours and then go to her?” Morse said sharply. “She thought we were...” He left it unsaid, but his meaning was more than clear. “How can my leaving have been worse than that?”

 

“That was my mistake,” Thursday said icily. “Trying to keep everyone happy and making us all bloody miserable instead. We’d been talking about how to change things, me and Win, but then you-“

 

“Oh, of course you and her had been talking about it. Because it would never have occurred to you to talk things through with me, it’s not like-“

 

“You do not get to take the high ground when it comes to not telling people things, Morse! If I need to discuss a plan for my family with my wife first, then…”

 

Thursday stopped midsentence, and all of the cold anger drained out of Morse and left him with nothing but aching sadness.

 

“Exactly,” he said quietly. “ _Your_ _family_ with _your wife_ first.”

 

“That’s not what I-“

 

“We don’t fit,” Morse said quickly. “You know we don’t. It was a ridiculous idea, I should never have said yes. I… I didn’t realise about the sleeping, I’m sorry. I thought – I thought you came back again the next night out of pity, not because you still needed it.”

 

He saw Thursday open his mouth to speak and hurried on. “I understand, about all the other things – I really do. All that stuff I said – I still understand why. I know you were just trying to do what was best.”

 

“You were actually telling me how you felt for once, just now” Thursday said unhappily.

 

Morse gave a tight-lipped smile. “We need to try something new. Maybe I shouldn’t have just left like that. I just - I couldn’t see another way.”

 

Thursday took a step closer, the sunlight falling on his face again. “Bright talked to me,” he said in what seemed an abrupt change of subject.

 

“I’m missing the Sergeant’s exam,” Morse said. It had been another thing to think about while he was stuck listening to concerned bystanders the day before. All he could think about was how his father dying affected  _him_.

 

“No, I mean, yes, but that wasn’t what he wanted to talk to me about. He seemed to think I knew all about your possible plans to transfer. Or to leave entirely.”

 

Morse went very still.

 

“Want to tell me about that, Morse?”

 

He licked dry lips and stuck his hands in his pockets. “It’s not like we haven’t talked about it – what I’d end up doing. I thought it was time to figure out what I was going to do next. Whether that was staying in the police, or…”

 

“Or?”

 

“Or going back to university.”

 

“I see.” Thursday cast sharp eyes over his face. “And what did you decide?”

 

“I don’t know,” Morse pushed past numb lips. “I was bored, stuck on general duties. I thought maybe – so I talked to my old tutor. But then this case – I liked being out in the field again, I liked…” His hands formed loose fists, and he again said, “I don’t know.”

 

“And you couldn’t have talked to me?”

 

“I just didn’t-“

 

And then the need which had been becoming steadily more pressing became an absolute, and he stuttered “I need to sit down.”

 

“Christ, lad.” Thursday caught him as he wavered. “Alright, alright, let’s get you over here.”

 

They sat, and Morse’s vision stayed a hazy for a minute; a great pressure pushing from behind his eyes. Sound phased back in with Thursday’s voice saying “-such an idiot! You injured, just lost your father, and here I am arguing with you like the biggest-“

 

“Sorry,” Morse managed, and Thursday was immediately down beside him again, fingers plucking uselessly at Morse’s collar.

 

“You alright, lad?” he asked gently. “Look a bit peaky. Didn’t give me half a scare.”

 

“Too much standing,” Morse admitted. “I’ve been mostly sitting, the last couple of days.”

 

“As you should have been. Thoughtless of me, keeping you up like that.” Morse opened his mouth to protest that he’d done it of his own accord, but Thursday’s fingers were stroking gently over his cheek and he lost the words.

 

“I don’t know what to do with you, Morse,” Thursday murmured quietly. “I couldn’t have fallen in love with a more stubborn, self-sacrificing idiot if I’d tried-“ and Morse’s brain got stuck halfway through that sentence and then refused to process anything afterwards “-and God knows I’ve been doing everything wrong that I possibly could have. I don’t know how to make things right with you, I don’t know how to do this, but I want to. God help me, I want to. I thought – when you moved out – I thought that maybe you _didn’t_ anymore, that you didn’t think it was worth trying. That you’d given up on me. Which would have been what I deserved, I know, but-“

 

Morse unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “You-“ and Thursday rumbled to a stop to hear him out. “You-“ And he couldn’t say it, couldn’t ask it, and he would have done anything for Thursday to read his mind at that moment but the other man just stared at him in confusion. “Nevermind.”

 

Thursday waited a moment, but when nothing more was forthcoming he eased backwards and stood, shifting cramped limbs. After taking a seat beside Morse again, he drew in a deep breath and held it.

 

“I’ll tell you what I want. I want to be with you. All the time. Like we were in Cornwall – all of it. I want to touch you whenever I want, and for you to feel like you can do that too. And for you to feel like you can trust me. Be yourself around me. God knows you’ve seen the worst of me. And I want to still be able to spend time with Win, because we’ve been together such a long time that I’m not sure who I’d be without her. I want those family dinners. The kids are more grown up than I think they are, but I still want to be a part of their lives.

 

“There, now I’ve gone and blurted my heart out, what do you want, Morse? Not what’s possible, not what you think will make anyone else happy. What do you  _want_?”

 

Morse sat, completely stymied. When Thursday shifted beside him, he feared with impatience, he quickly said “I’ve just never thought about it.”

 

“That sounds like you,” Thursday muttered dryly.

 

Resisting the urge to say something back, Morse let his eyes drift aimlessly across the garden and his thoughts drift along with them.

 

What did he sit and think about, when he thought about what he wanted with Thursday? When he hoped that things might change.

 

“Sometimes I just-“ The words caught in his throat, and he shook his head.

 

On the other side of the garden a small ginger cat hopped down from the fence, and began investigating Gwen’s fastidiously kept flower beds.

 

Thursday gave him a moment, and then said, “There’s no wrong answer, lad.”

 

The cat began digging, and an image of his step-mother’s annoyance flashed through Morse’s mind.

 

“I just, sometimes I just dream about… If you – I mean, it’s silly…” His throat closed off, and he felt a moment’s awe at Thursday for just being able to reel off a list of all his desires.

 

A warm hand came to rest on his knee, fingers curling around the inside of it. It gave a gentle squeeze. Thursday stayed quiet.

 

After a moment Morse gathered his courage, feeling like a complete idiot, and said, “I like to think about – about you holding me. Like when we used to wake up in Cornwall. Just… lying there, not needing to go anywhere.“ Like the promise of it when Thursday would come to join him in bed after they got back to Oxford, which was always overshadowed by the knowledge that he would leave again after Morse had barely got used to the shape of him there.

 

His thoughts were interrupted by a low noise to his left; he turned to find that Thursday had covered his eyes with his other hand. Frowning, Morse lowered his hand to nudge his fingers against Thursday’s on his knee.

 

Thursday cleared his throat. “Sorry, go on.”

 

“No, I-“ Morse paused and cleared his throat too, feeling awkward. “Sorry.”

 

Thursday had listed useful things, which could be worked towards or compromised on. Morse should have done that.

 

This time the silence lasted for long enough that Morse started to wonder if someone from the house would come looking for him. And the metal frame of the chair wasn’t the most comfortable for his hip – he leaned to the side a bit more to try and ease it.

 

“I didn’t think you could actually make me feel any worse about all of this,” Thursday said abruptly. “But I ask you your heart’s desire and all that you want is to-“ He cut himself off, and let out a heavy breath through his nose. “I want that too, Morse. I dream about that too.”

 

Morse gave a shaky nod, and looked away because he couldn’t bear Thursday seeing his face. His knee tingled as Thursday started to rub his thumb back and forth.

 

“I don’t know if-“ Morse paused to lick his lips “-if I want to live with you all. I _like_  everyone,” he added helplessly, “and I missed them, when I left. But I always felt so… constrained. Like I couldn’t be who I was, or do what I wanted to do.”

 

“And what did you want to do, Morse?”

 

“I don’t know. Play my records whenever I wanted. Read without being disturbed all the time. Be able… What you said. Be able to touch you whenever I wanted.”

 

Thursday thought about this for a minute. “A lot of that is just living with other people, Morse. Especially with your kids, when it comes to the last part.”

 

“I know that,” Morse said helplessly. “I’m just not very good at living with other people anymore. I need – I have things that I need to do, to keep – and I can’t-“

 

“But you were alright with me, in Cornwall?” Thursday interrupted.

 

“Well, yes,” Morse said, because he’d come to feel his awkwardness at the time was just _adjusting_. “Because then I was with you.”

 

The difference was obvious to him. Things that unwound his thoughts: music, books, quiet, and being close to Thursday. At the Thursday house, no matter how they’d tried, he hadn’t really been able to get any of those things, even retreating up to his room.

 

“I see,” Thursday said, in a tone which suggested that he probably didn’t. “Look, lad, maybe we can try something a bit different over the summer. Sam’s going be staying at an army camp for a bit, helping out. I think Joan’s still thinking of moving out, though she’s been waiting to see how it all settled. And Win’ll be visiting family for a bit. A month or two.”

 

So they had had that conversation. “She talked to me, before she left.”

 

Thursday leaned towards him, so that their shoulders rested against each other. “Did she? She didn’t tell me.”

 

“She said – said that she thought something needed to change. That we all needed more time apart to adjust.”

 

“Hmm. Much the same she said to me. Though I got told off a lot too. And,“ Thursday sighed, “everything’s changing so much with Sam and Joan anyway. I’m not used to the idea of them leaving home – thought we’d have them for a few years yet.”

 

“That’s because of me,” Morse pointed out.

 

“If it is, then it’s not by much, lad. Sam’s pretty keen on this army business, so he’d have been off in a year, and I told you that Joan was already thinking about it before anything else changed. No, it’s just me being old and set in my ways, and not liking change.”

 

They both sat and thought about that for a moment.

 

“I don’t much like change either,” Morse offered.

 

Thursday snorted. “The pair of us, eh?”

 

“You don’t think it’s odd?”

 

And this time Thursday seemed to know exactly what he meant. “I think we fit together well enough, lad. More than you realise.”

 

A few minutes passed in which Morse felt his muscles gradually unwind all the way – the chirp of birdsong and the warm sunshine doing their work. “I should get back inside,” he murmured finally.

 

“Mmm. Find out what’s going on, and then I’m taking you back with me.”

 

Halfway through the act of standing, Morse twisted to look at Thursday in surprise. “I’ll need to stay at least a few days,” he objected.

 

“Do you? I think what you need is to get that wound looked at, and be looked after for a bit.” When Morse hesitated, “Morse, do you want to stay?”

 

Morse shook his head. “But I should. For my sister.”

 

Thursday reached up and tugged at his hand. “I think she’d want you to take care of yourself. _I_  want you to take care of yourself, if that counts for anything.”

 

Morse hesitated perhaps a second too long, and a smile crept over Thursday’s face. “Well, come on then, let’s get it done. Find out what you’re needed for and when, and they can always call you with the rest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found it very hard to keep Morse himself and actually have a conversation about his feelings. Mostly I did it by writing a lot of stuff and then cutting about half of it out and replacing it with awkward silences. Still, I'm a bit not sure how it turned out *scratches head*


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thursday takes Morse home :)

Inside the house, Thursday was his Detective Inspector, kindly come up to take him back to hospital. “DC Morse saved my life two days ago,” he told Gwen. “I owe him more than I can repay.”

 

Joyce, however, was eying Thursday speculatively. She hustled Morse off to the kitchen to make tea, and then asked, “Is that him?”

 

Morse nodded. “Yes. He… I can stay, if you need me. He’s just being…”

 

“Protective?” She was smiling. “Good. At least someone’s trying to be sensible about the fact that you’re hurt.”

 

“But if you-“

 

“Go, Endeavour! I’ll feel a lot better knowing you’re alright. And thank you, for coming up here. It’s been – it helped, having you here.”

 

He bobbed his head a bit awkwardly, feeling the tension in his chest ease as he was absolved for wanting to leave.

 

“And…” He glanced up, saw her hesitate before she continued. “I know you said it was difficult. They seem nice, both of them, your bloke and his wife. If there’s anything I can do…”

 

He shook his head with a strained smile, but it grew more genuine at the sudden thought of her threatening Thursday to treat him right. “Thank you.”

 

“You take care of yourself, you hear me?”

 

\---------------

 

They got back around four in the afternoon. Thursday took him straight to the physician associated with the station. He stayed in the room during the examination, ignoring the doctor’s querying look, and despite Morse’s slight embarrassment he didn’t really want him to leave.

 

The doctor frowned reprovingly at Morse, seeming unimpressed that he’d gone haring around the country with a slap-dash job on a bullet wound.

 

“It might seem like a small hole,” he said severely, “but being shot is extremely serious. You’re lucky it missed the bone. You certainly shouldn’t have been walking on it immediately afterwards.”

 

Morse cast a short, guilty glance at Thursday, whose expression remained carefully neutral.

 

“Well, you’ll need to rest as much as possible for about a week. I’m concerned that it might not heal right – I’ll want to keep an eye on it – and there’s a possibility it will give you a slight limp. Especially as you get older. We may have caught it early enough.”

 

“When can I go back to work?” Morse asked, and saw Thursday shift restlessly off to the side.

 

“When I clear you for duty,” the doctor said sternly. “It’ll be at least two or three weeks before I’ll even let you near a desk, and a good deal longer before you can be back on active duty – after the way you’ve treated it.”

 

“Two weeks!”

 

“Three,” the doctor said firmly. “Push me again, and I’ll make it four. I can tell you’re the type not to actually take it easy unless you’re forbidden from coming in.”

 

“I’ll make sure he sticks to it,” Thursday said in a rusty voice, and they both looked over at him.

 

The doctor nodded. “I heard about that business, down at The Moonlight Rooms. Very glad that nobody ended up coming to my office.”

 

“That was down to this one,” Thursday said with a nod at Morse.

 

“Well then.” The doctor stripped off his gloves, and gestured them towards the door. “Three weeks,” he said again.

 

Morse bit his lip and said nothing.

 

\------------------

 

They stopped by Morse’s flat to pick up a few things, and Morse didn’t even try to argue that he could stay there by himself. Everything seemed in a state of complete flux at the moment, and it was hard for him to figure out when to take a stand when the ground kept shifting under his feet.

 

Maybe he needed to do what Thursday had suggested, and figure out exactly what he wanted.

 

Win came out to meet them in the hall as soon as the door shut behind them, and it was the first time since he’d left that Morse thought her eyes looked clear and peaceful.

 

“Good to have you two back,” she said, and tried to take the bag Thursday was carrying.

 

“No, love, it’s heavy. I’ll-“

 

“Sam,” she called. “Come and give us a hand with Morse’s bag, will you?”

 

Sam appeared in the doorway behind her, all dishevelled hair and wary smile. Morse felt a relief in seeing him in person that surprised him – he hadn’t realised how worried he’d been about him, seventeen or no.

 

“Thanks,” he said to Sam, because this wasn’t the right crowd to try to convince that he could carry the bag himself.

 

He followed Sam up at a limping pace, leaving Thursday and Win talking in the hallway, and hesitated by the old sewing room after Sam walked right past it. Sam didn’t stop until he reached the master bedroom, and then turned with raised eyebrow to see what had held Morse up. “Need a hand?”

 

Belatedly, Morse realised Sam thought he was having trouble with his leg (and admittedly, he was currently very slow going up stairs). He tapped the door to the sewing room with a knuckle and tilted his head, but Sam shook his head quickly.

 

“You’ve been shot, mate, you get a proper bed,” he said wryly.

 

“But-“ Morse started, throat dry, but Sam shook his head again.

 

“No buts. Or else, that’s an argument you can have with Mum. Good luck.”

 

He vanished inside the bedroom, and Morse awkwardly followed.

 

It wasn’t as though he’d never seen inside Thursday’s bedroom, but he’d never set foot in it – as though it were some kind of sacred space. He looked around it now as though it was a ruin of some long lost culture, trying to analyse how it fit in with the couple he knew.

 

The bedding was new, he noticed immediately. Dark blue stripes. He’d never seen that before.

 

“Sorry about your dad,” Sam said, rousting Morse from his thoughts.

 

“What? Oh.” Morse shrugged. “It was… we didn’t really get on. He didn’t really…” He shrugged again.

 

Sam nodded, and seemed content to let it go at that. Teenage boys, Morse thought with amusement – some things were much simpler with them.

 

“And you?” he asked.

 

Sam mimicked his shrug. “Was being a bit of an idiot, wasn’t I? Overly dramatic, that’s what Mum called it.”

 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Morse said awkwardly, because in the end he could empathise. It felt a bit as though he’d been running away from things his entire adult life.

 

Sam caught his eye for a second, and then shrugged again.

 

“Sometimes it feels like the only thing you can do,” Morse said quietly.

 

This time Sam’s look was longer, and Morse remembered the things he’d written in his letter.

 

“When I left a couple of weeks ago…” He hesitated, saw Sam squirm. “It wasn’t anything you did, Sam,” he said. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” The look of discomfort Sam was broadcasting amplified, so Morse changed the subject. “I heard something about an army camp?”

 

The awkwardness didn’t go away, but Sam’s posture became a little less defensive. “Well, they won’t let me join yet. But they’ll give me a job, doing basic stuff around the camp, and I can stay on site. It’ll give me a boost, they said, if I still want to join next year. I think Mum’s hoping that actually being there will put me off.” He wrinkled his nose, and Morse smiled.

 

“Quit your old job then?”

 

“Yeah. It was boring – it’ll be nice to try something new. Though everyone’s very keen to tell me it’ll be really hard work.”

 

Morse nodded, and then stepped back towards the door.

 

“You aren’t going to say anything? About me leaving?”

 

Morse looked back at Sam and found him looking uncertain, shaken. For the first time, Morse wondered what role he filled in the young man’s life – apparently not just an intruder but what? An older brother, an awkward uncle? Joan had said Sam had liked having another male around the house; clearly Morse hadn’t been paying enough attention.

 

“No,” he said in response to Sam’s question. “I know you wouldn’t have done it unless you felt you had to, though I’ve been told,” he said wryly, “that you should try and talk it through first in case things can be solved another way.”

 

Sam nodded, and looked painfully young for a moment. “It’s alright, you being back,” he said quickly, and then he walked quickly ahead of Morse and down the stairs.

 

Morse slowly thumped his way back down after him, gripping the bannister tightly to take as much weight as possible off his leg.

 

“Here,” Thursday said, appearing in the hall as he’d almost reached the bottom. “I wasn’t thinking about the stairs, I’m sorry. You alright?”

 

“Fine,” Morse said.

 

“Sam alright?” Morse nodded. “Good. Win’s got dinner started, you come and relax for a bit on the-”

 

“What’s going to happen?” Morse asked urgently. “Sam put my bag in…”

 

“Ah.” Thursday stopped their progress towards the living room. He drew in a great breath, as though preparing for battle, and then turned to Morse. “Well, that’s where we’ll be sleeping tonight. Win’ll have Joan’s room – Joan’s staying over with a friend. We’ve made this decision without consulting you,” he overrode what Morse was about to say, “because you would never complain even if your leg was hurting, and you’d never think to…” _Kick Win out of her own bed_ , Morse’s mind supplied.

 

“And everyone’s alright with this?” Morse asked, because they  _couldn’t_  be.

 

Thursday reached up to rub his temple. “Going to be a bit weird, I think,” he said honestly. “Win’ll go to stay with her sister tomorrow; we’ve not quite worked out how that will go, so we’ll see. Sam’s here for the rest of the week, then he’s off to start his new job, and Joan… No idea.”

 

Morse stayed silent this time, unable to work out how to voice the complex jumble of feelings running through him.

 

“Morse, no one was alright with the way that things  _were_ , so it’s pointless worrying too much about it being like this instead. I honestly-“ and here Thursday’s voice became a bit unsure “-don’t see any alternative.”

 

And what was Morse’s plan that was any better? What did he  _want_? Time alone with Thursday. Sleeping with Thursday. All of it being handed to him on a silver platter, and he was fighting it because of what, his conscience?

 

_Fear_.

 

He’d held the same position too long, even a couple of minutes was a bit much at the moment, and he winced as he shifted. Thursday caught the motion – because of course he did – and shepherded him into the living room without further argument. Joan was in there, reading a magazine, and she looked up at their entrance.

 

“Sam’s just taking the rubbish out,” she said, and Thursday nodded. Then, to Morse, “Heard you’ve been through the wars!”

 

“I was a bit slow,” he said wryly, and she laughed.

 

“Hold yourself to a high standard if you’re expecting to be able to dodge bullets. Anyway, you sit here, that way you can put your leg up.”

 

She moved from her spot on the arm chair, and they got him settled with a padded stool under his lower leg and foot. It eased the pressure on his hip considerably, and he gave a little sigh of relief. It also helped that the painkillers the doctor had given him earlier had kicked in.

 

“Right, let me go see if your mother needs anything. Morse, you alright?”

 

Morse nodded, but Joan said smartly, “I’ll have a cup of tea, please.”

 

“Make it yourself,” Thursday shot back. “Honestly, the cheek I get round here.”

 

“You alright?” Morse asked Joan once Thursday was out the door. She tipped her head sideways and considered him.

 

“Course I am.” She hesitated, then, “Dad said you saved his life.”

 

Morse snorted. “He was exaggerating then.”

 

She opened her mouth, closed it again. Spent a moment carefully smoothing the cover of her magazine. “He doesn’t talk about work,” she said finally. “You know that.” He nodded. “But something about this last one got him really riled up – I thought it was just you leaving, to start with, but it was something about that club, wasn’t it?”

 

“Yes. I only know a bit of it – I think your mum knows.”

 

“Well, he talked about this. Sat down with me and Sam, when you and Mum had gone off, and said that someone had threatened you, threatened all of us. Said that you’d put off going to see your father to come back and help him – that it was the only reason he’d made it through the day. Said it was his fault you got shot.”

 

“No, that’s not true,” Morse said strongly. “Neither of us realised that she had a gun. It wasn’t his fault.”

 

Her eyes lightened a bit. “Didn’t think it was, to be honest,” she said. “Likes to take on too much responsibility, does Dad.”

 

Morse sighed, the day catching up with him. He crossed his arms over his chest and felt a sleepy lassitude steal over him. “Are you really alright?” he asked quietly. “You were… not alright, before. And none of us knew.”

 

She gave a laugh which sounded a little watery, and he forced open eyes he hadn’t noticed drifting shut to see her sad smile. “I was just worried,” she said. “But you’ll stay this time, won’t you? Dad couldn’t bear it if you-“

 

Her words faded out, and he dozed contentedly.

 

\-------------------

 

They didn’t wake him for dinner, but Win heated up a tin of soup for him when he stirred around eight.

 

He was still feeling muzzy and a bit disoriented when it was placed on a tray on his lap, and he murmured absent thanks.

 

“He needs the rest,” Win was saying to Thursday when he looked up. Morse yawned again, and picked up the spoon in front of him, shuffling a bit more upright so that he could eat.

 

“I know he does. I was the one saying so!”

 

“He ought to have been sleeping as much as possible, the last couple of days – he’ll have to catch up now.”

 

“Yes, love,” Thursday said, switching to fond agreement.

 

“And don’t let him do too much.”

 

“No, love.”

 

“I’ll stay tomorrow – with you at work. He needs looking after.”

 

Morse cleared his throat, embarrassed at them talking over him, and they both looked across the room as though they’d half-forgotten he was there.

 

“How’re you feeling now then?” Thursday asked, and Morse shrugged and dipped his spoon in the soup.

 

It was strange, ever since the shooting he’d been ricocheting from one thing to the next – no time to stop. It had been painful, and exhausting, and there had been a few times when he’d worried about his ability to keep going, but he somehow just  _had_ , without thinking about it.

 

Now, even though enough time had passed that he felt he should be improving, it was as though it had only just happened, as though his body had been storing up two days’ worth of shock and reaction and it had hit him all at once.

 

“You’ve had a rough few days, haven’t you, lad,” Thursday said, coming to stand beside him and reaching out to steady Morse’s grip on the spoon. A quick look down showed him that it had started sliding through his fingers, and would have hit the tomato soup with a splash given another few seconds of inattention.

 

“I’m not sure I’m hungry,” he said apologetically, but Win looked at him with steely eyes.

 

“Oh, no,” she said. “You need your strength. We’ve got strict instructions from the doctor.”

 

Here Morse looked at Thursday in betrayal, and received a twinkle in his eyes in response.

 

“Eat,” she urged, and so he slowly worked his way through most of the bowl, with the two of them staying companionably beside him.

 

“Want me to carry you upstairs?” Thursday offered afterwards, and Morse snorted.

 

It was entirely possible that Thursday was thinking about it, however, so he swiftly added, “No.”

 

“Just as well,” Thursday said peaceably. “It would probably do in my back. Come on then, let’s get you up.”

 

Thursday helped him undress; Morse too tired to protest that he’d been managing by himself thus far. It was easier with another pair of hands so that he didn’t have to twist or balance awkwardly, and, truth be told, it was nice to have Thursday’s hands running over him with such easy care.

 

“Where did it go so wrong?” he mumbled, thinking that they’d been here before, what seemed like such a long time ago. Briefly, so briefly, they’d had it right, and then it had all fallen apart again.

 

Thursday sighed and stepped up behind him, his arms slipping easily around Morse’s waist.

 

“I’m not sure, love. Assumptions. Trying not to worry each other. I should never have told you so often that it would all be fine – so that you felt like you had to put on a face and pretend it was. You can always tell me the truth, you know that?”

 

Morse thought about the truths they’d shared in Cornwall, about his relationship with Susan, about Thursday’s past. Thursday hadn’t reacted badly, hadn’t rejected him. Hadn’t laughed at him.

 

“It’s harder,” he said, “when the truth affects other people.”

 

A moment’s quiet contemplation at his back. “It’s still the truth though. We can choose to deal with it all kinds of ways, but we’re both in this, Morse. It’s a lot easier to make decisions if you’re dealing with a full deck.”

 

Morse stirred, and moved towards the bed. Thursday drew back the covers, and stood close as Morse slowly lowered himself to the mattress and swung his legs round.

 

“And what decisions would you have made differently?” Morse asked. Thursday reached over him to drag the duvet back across, to lay his hand over Morse’s chest through the covers.

 

“Oh, I don’t know.” His face was half shadowed in the dim light of the bedside, but Morse thought he looked tired. Then again, he’d looked tired for some time now. “I’m not one for might-have-beens. I just wonder sometimes…”

 

He went quiet for a minute, and Morse watched every slight change of expression sweeping across his face; each thought that caused the slight crease of a frown or a twitch of the lips. Morse’s eyelids started to feel heavy, and he tried desperately to keep them open.

 

“What do you wonder?” he murmured.

 

The way that Thursday’s eyes went off to the side suggested that he didn’t feel comfortable looking at him, and Morse felt a pang of empathy. Thursday was usually so good at saying things, where Morse always felt like he couldn’t get the words out.

 

“You’ve been so… I don’t know the word. Obliging. Sometimes I wonder – if you’d come at me with even an ounce of intent, at the beginning, things would have been a mite different.”

 

Morse’s tired brain attempted to process that. “What are you saying?” he said slowly.

 

“Nothing. I don’t know.“ Thursday gave a huff. “We did things very differently from most couples.”

 

“I – I didn’t even think it was possible that it was a bond. And you had your family. And…”

 

“And Susan,” Thursday finished.

 

Morse nodded his head against the pillow, hair ruffling into a mess as he moved. “I couldn’t bear it, not again. Not when I thought it would end the same way.”

 

Thursday sat on the side of the bed, his weight dipping the mattress and causing Morse’s body to lean in towards him, like it had found a new source of gravity. “Why would you think that?” Thursday asked softly.

 

“I just – it’s so rare, what happened. Because no one ever wants to leave the person they’ve bonded with. So what did that say about me? And when I knew about Gull… I wondered if it only happened to people who were-“ he shuddered “- _wrong_ , somehow.”

 

“That’s bollocks,” Thursday said immediately, his voice clear and assertive. “He was a nut job, and a twisted one at that, and you’re the furthest thing from him I could imagine. How often do I see you being kind to our Joan, to Sam? I’m not sure that you ever think of yourself at all!”

 

“Oh, I do.” Morse smiled a sad smile.

 

“Well you barely show it. Except for your great dramatic displays, of course, like leaving me in the lurch here.”

 

And there was so much hurt underlying the words that Morse forced himself all the way to wakefulness again, realising he’d managed to leave Thursday with a fear that Morse was going to leave him. Exactly the same fear that Morse had himself. How ironic.

 

“It was selfish,” he muttered quietly. “Because I didn’t want to get hurt.”

 

Thursday sighed, and his hand slid up Morse’s chest to gently cup his cheek; trace his fingers over his brow. “That’s not selfish, Endeavour, that’s me doing a terrible job of making you happy.”

 

“Why is it your job to keep me happy?”

 

“It just is! And not job, you know that’s not what I meant, but…”

 

“I don’t think I know how to make you happy,” Morse said after a moment’s thought. “As things are – I’ve no idea what to do to make things better for you.”

 

Thursday hummed. “I _do_ know what to do to make you happy, I’ve just not been doing it; too wrapped up in other concerns.” Like his family, as though that could ever be relegated to ‘other concerns.’

 

“But nothing’s changed,” said Morse.

 

“That’s where you’re wrong. Lots of things have changed, Morse, and you were here for most of them. Just didn’t see them. Don’t worry about it now. Get some rest, I’ll be up in a bit.”

 

It was still early, and Morse had spent the last couple of hours asleep, but even so his eyes dipped closed immediately. His rest was troubled though; it felt as though every few minutes he stirred because the wound on his hip pulled at him. It had been like that the last couple of nights – a burning frustration that kept him awake, an inability to find a comfortable position.

 

He was already half awake, therefore, when Thursday came to bed. A quiet “Morse?” had him hum a dissatisfied response, which prompted a chuckle.

 

The quiet, familiar sounds of Thursday undressing, and then, “You managed to get the covers all tangled round you. What were you doing, waging war against them? Come on now, roll a bit.”

 

Morse made small noises of protest as he was shifted, but didn’t bother to open his eyes fully. Thursday eased him back onto the bed, lying beside him now, and tugged the covers back over the both of them.

 

“Is this comfortable? Or is it better on your side?”

 

“Mmfph.”

 

“I’ll just leave you to it then, shall I,” Thursday said wryly, and then a kiss was pressed against his bare shoulder. Morse changed his tune to an approving hum, and angled his head to the side.

 

“Oh, lad, you’ve no idea how I’ve missed you.”

 

The arm that was carefully slung across his chest made Morse smile, and he thought about summoning up the energy to actually say something – right before he fell asleep.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morse starts to recuperate with lots of love and care.

Waking up was a slow, easy process, in a way that it hadn’t been in months. A feeling of warm contentment, a lack of desire to move; a belief that right here, right now was absolutely perfect and there was no need to hurry anything.

 

Awareness of other sensations took a little longer; the penetrating sting of pain at his hip, the solid weight pressed against his back. Morse blinked his eyes open and the hazy sunlight peaking around the cracks in the curtains told him it was past dawn.

 

His lips had curved in a smile before his mind had translated the sensations, had come up with ‘ _in bed with Thursday_.’ The thought could not then be suppressed, and awareness of every part of the body pressed against him flooded his being. The slow, even breaths making the chest behind him rise and fall. The slightest stirring – pressing one knee more firmly into the hollow of Morse’s. The way that breath puffed lightly across the hairs on the back of Morse’s neck.

 

Morse lay absolutely still, and soaked it in.

 

It was perhaps another five minutes before Thursday pressed a sleepy kiss against the back of his shoulder, and Morse had no idea how long Thursday had been awake.

 

“Morning,” he said, his own voice low from sleep, and heard Thursday’s pleased hum behind him.

 

“Morning,” Thursday said, and his arm tightened a little around Morse’s waist.

 

The feel of Thursday nuzzling gently against the nape of his neck was exquisite, and Thursday’s hips rocked forwards comfortably right before large fingers ran silky-sure over the front of Morse’s pyjama bottoms.

 

\-----------------

 

Afterwards, as Thursday got dressed, Morse went to the bathroom to relieve his increasingly urgent bladder and to have a quick wash with a flannel. The mirror above the sink showed him a face which looked remarkably at peace, and even after waiting a minute there was no sign of it creasing in a frown.

 

There were still plenty of reasons to worry. There were still so many problems. There was still his entire future to think about.

 

He remembered the warm sensation of Thursday’s body pressed close against his, and his lips pulled upwards in a smile.

 

\---------------------

 

He’d barely made it to the top of the stairs – wrapped in one of Thursday’s old dressing gowns – when Win sent him back to bed again.

 

“How’s long’s it been since you had breakfast in bed? Enjoy it while it lasts,” she said with a small smile, looking up at him from the bottom of the stairs. “I’ll be up in a minute.”

 

Sudden clarity announced that when she said she’d stay home and keep an eye on him today, that meant she’d be coming into the bedroom he and Thursday had just shared. Wide eyed, he took quick, short steps back there, jarring his hip, and hastily tried to tidy away the clothes he’d haphazardly shed last night. They’d dealt with shared laundry before, but there was no way that she needed to see his underwear on her bedroom floor. Or either of their pyjama bottoms from last night, and any evidence therein. Then he opened a window – it was a nice day anyway, he could have just been wanting to let the breeze in.

 

The bed was trickier – there was no way that he could change the sheets in time. And they shouldn’t be that bad anyway.  He clambered in, hauling the covers over himself and checking every spot of bedlinen visible to the naked eye in hasty paranoia. A minute later there was the sound of her coming up the stairs, and as she rounded the open door holding a tray he fixed a smile on his face.

 

“He’s off in a rush,” she explained as she set the tray down on the nearest bedside table. “Otherwise he’d have come in to say goodbye. Alright. Toast with jam, and tea.” She looked to Morse for approval, and he nodded. “And there’s a bell – ring it if you need anything.”

 

“I am perfectly capable of walking downstairs, you know.”

 

“Of course you are, love. That’s exactly what you’ve been doing. That’s exactly what Fred told me might leave you with a permanent limp, and stuck off work for a while.” She gave him an interested smile. “Would you like to go downstairs?”

 

Faced with that kind of opposition, Morse subsided back onto his pillows. “No, thank you,” he said ruefully, and she helped pile up the pillows behind him so that he could half sit up for his breakfast.

 

“I’ll be just downstairs. If I go out into the garden I’ll let you know, alright.”

 

He smiled, and nodded, and felt incredibly awkward.

 

\-------------------

 

DeBryn came to visit at lunch, Win ushering him in with a pleased expression. “Look who’s here!”

 

Morse had wedged himself at a mostly-comfortable 70 degree angle, and looked up from a dog-eared copy of Shakespeare’s comedies which had been retrieved for him from Joan’s room.

 

“Morse.”

 

Morse gave a half-smile in return, slightly uncertain as to why DeBryn was there.

 

“I thought I’d swing by and entertain you for a bit – I know you’ll be laid up for a few days.”

 

“I really could go downstairs,” he muttered as soon as Win left the room, and DeBryn chuckled.

 

“Ah, never get in the way of a woman’s urge to fuss, that’s what I say.” He must have seen something on Morse’s face, because he tilted his head in inquiry. “What is it?”

 

Morse had dim memories from his childhood of his mother looking after him when he was sick, but they slipped away when he tried to grasp them. Something he knew must have happened, but he wasn’t able to pinpoint.

 

And since then…

 

“It’s a bit odd,” he said, trying to explain, and DeBryn gave him a gentle smile.

 

“Ah, yes, one isn’t used to it, when one lives alone. Mind you, my mother still tries, even though usually I’m the one looking after her.”

 

Morse shrugged, but felt a little more at ease. “What have you got there?” he asked as DeBryn opened his briefcase and started pulling something out.

 

“I’ve been saving the paper for you, the last few days. Won’t last you long, but there are a few crosswords to do.”

 

That was surprisingly thoughtful of him, and something not even Win had thought to do. “Thanks,” Morse said, and set them on the bed beside him when they were handed over.

 

DeBryn pulled a chair over, and sat beside the bed.

 

“I feel ridiculous, lying here,” Morse said.

 

“It could do with at least one good day of bed rest,” DeBryn said firmly. “More, preferably. The flesh needs a chance to knit back together, which I suspect you haven’t given it so far. It’s a good idea generally to keep it moving, to exercise it, but doing that right away will just stop it from healing right. Which you already know, I’m sure,” he added with a sigh.

 

“It’s been three days,” Morse said tightly. Then, closing his eyes briefly, “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I keep – I just feel useless.”

 

“It’s very important to you, isn’t it, to be of use?” DeBryn murmured, and Morse snapped his eyes open again to see a measuring look on the other man’s face.

 

Morse stayed silent.

 

DeBryn stretched out his legs in front of the chair, and gazed out of the window for a minute. “I used to see a lot of things, in the army,” he said.

 

Morse was startled; he hadn’t even known DeBryn had served.

 

“Oh, yes,” the pathologist said, taking in Morse’s surprise. “In my younger days. Korea, as a doctor. You can get used to all sorts of horrors, if you see them every day.”

 

“Why didn’t you…?”

 

They looked at each other, Morse not even sure what he was trying to ask, before DeBryn glanced off to the side again. “My nerves were shot, after. I found people… frustrating to deal with. An old mentor of mine suggested this position, when it came up.”

 

Morse nodded, thoughtful. There was a subtly removed air about DeBryn, that was true enough, and a healthy dose of sarcasm, but Morse couldn’t picture him having difficulties dealing with people.

 

As though reading his mind, DeBryn commented, “That was a long time ago. Although it has to be said that some of your colleagues still manage to irritate me quite thoroughly on occasion.”

 

“You aren’t alone there.”

 

“No, I suppose not. Anyway, one of the things I found most fascinating was the different ways that men dealt with the pressure of war, and with being injured. Men who would shoot themselves in the foot to get discharged. Men who were unable to deal with the fact that they had survived when others had not. And then,” DeBryn lingered over the words, “there were men who were seriously injured, who needed time to heal, so desperate to get back to the front that they jeopardised their own recovery.”

 

It was Morse’s turn to look aside. “I’m not sure what you’re trying to say.”

 

“Aren’t you?”

 

“That I have some sort of guilt complex?”

 

DeBryn sighed. “No, not a guilt complex. But I have noticed a tendency to believe your entire worth as a person is directly tied in to your work and what you can do for other people.”

 

Morse opened his mouth to deny it – to say that he had plenty of things which defined him outside of that. And then shut it again. His brain travelled long worn paths of self-reflection and asked: not who you _are_ , but your  _worth_ _?_

 

“Isn’t that how everyone measures their worth?” he asked, finally. “In what they can do, and achieve?”

 

DeBryn laced his fingers over his chest and hummed. “To some degree, yes. But also in their relationships with other people – the relationships themselves, Morse, not just what one can do for a person. To love and be loved.”

 

Morse’s brow wrinkled as he thought. “That is the only reality in the world, all else is folly,” he mused.

 

There was silence for a moment, both of them considering this. Then, “I didn’t take you for a fan of Tolstoy.”

 

Morse glanced up. “No.”

 

“Apt, though.”

 

“Mmm.”

 

“Yes, well,” DeBryn sighed. “There are some philosophies which it is much easier to apply to other people.”

 

“What about you?” Morse asked.

 

“Hmm?”

 

“Who do you have?”

 

It was, in hindsight, a remarkably personal inquiry. But then, turnabout was fair play.

 

“I have my mother,” DeBryn replied calmly. “Two or three very good friends left over from my studies and from the army.” His dark eyes assessed Morse for a moment, and then he added, “You.”

 

It was a small pool of people. The situation resonated with Morse.

 

“I have my sister,” Morse said. He’d had friends at university, but no one close, not after Susan. Now he had acquaintances, drinking partners, colleagues. “And Thursday. Mrs Thursday, maybe.” He stopped there; didn’t say DeBryn’s name. Instead, he picked up a paper from beside him. As he unfolded it and began to flick through the pages, he admitted “I’ve often felt unsure of whether _we’re_ friends.”  


“Oh?”

 

Morse smoothed out a stubborn crease preventing the page from turning without tearing it. “At first I assumed it was professional care; curiosity. Then obligation. I was-“ _Uncomfortable_ , he didn’t say.

 

“And now?”

 

There was no offence taken, just genuine curiosity, and Morse looked up. “I think perhaps we are,” he said, though there was uncertainty in it.

 

“Well then,” DeBryn said. “Let me tell you what happened yesterday. I mentioned the head of cardiology to you before – odious, pompous man.”

 

Morse nodded an agreement, and DeBryn regaled him with tales of his exploits to see the man humiliated in front of his peers, and cut out of interfering with hospital administration.

 

It was a rare thing, Morse decided all over again, to possess a sense of humour at once so insightful and cutting and yet so carefully applied. Rather entertaining to listen to, as well.

 

\------------------

 

“M’fine,” he slurred, even before he opened his eyes.

 

Win’s laugh was soft and warm. “I’m sure you are. Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

 

He blinked reluctant eyes open to find that the sun had moved across the sky; the room filling with late afternoon shadows. The chair where DeBryn had been sitting had been moved back against the wall. The newspapers tidied onto the nightstand.

 

“DeBryn?” Morse asked.

 

“He headed off hours ago, love. Said to give you his best. You were out like a light.”

 

Morse pulled a face, stretching a little. He yawned. “There’s no way I could possibly still be tired.”

 

“Healing takes the body in different ways. You just let it do what it needs to. I thought I would have to sit on you today to keep you in bed, but you’ve done it all by yourself.”

 

He pulled himself up a little, watched her progress around the room. She’d placed a glass of water and some painkillers by his bed, and he reached for them.

 

“How’s your day been?” he asked automatically.

 

It wasn’t until she answered that he was struck by the fact that  _he_  had changed, living with them. That wasn’t a question, a few months ago, that would have automatically occurred to him – even to diffuse an awkward silence. Moreover, he really didn’t mind listening to her; hearing banal details about a radio program and her phone calls was soothing rather than boring.

 

He’d told himself – told Thursday – that he needed his space, but how much was that really true? How much was it just the situation - living in a confined space with people he thought hated him and wanted him gone – and not having anywhere to retreat from it?

 

If things had genuinely been alright between them – if he’d just come in to rent a room, or recuperate after an injury – maybe he would have loved being here. Maybe he could have accepted Win’s quiet, unobtrusive mothering and Sam and Joan’s bantering without it crushing at him. He’d still have felt like an outsider of course, but maybe it would have been alright. Maybe, if only it weren’t for this unacknowledged war over Thursday’s affections that they were all fighting, surrendering and being mortally wounded in.

 

‘ _What do you want?_ ’ he would have asked Win, except that he could not bear to hear the answer. Their two longed for futures incompatible, and the compromise so far not well stomached by either.   

 

He tried again to put himself in her place, to think: this is my family. I may not love my husband as I once did, but he is my husband, and we care for each other dearly. I have a wonderful home, with two children we have raised together, and I will live out the rest of my life here, peaceful and content. Except – now there is another, someone that my husband loves in ways he does not love me. They need each other, and I am not a part of this. Perhaps he is nice enough, this new boy, and I can welcome him, but his existence threatens everything I cherish, and my contentment is gone.

 

“What are you thinking about, love?”

 

Morse darted a guilty glance up, and found her peaceful and serene. “Oh, just wishing I hadn’t fallen asleep again,” he said.

 

She smoothed the duvet at the foot of the bed again, and then came to perch on the edge of the bed beside him. “I don’t know how to make this any easier for you,” she said, and they weren’t talking about his injury anymore.

 

“Nor I, for you,” he replied honestly. “There’s nothing…”

 

“Mmm. I-“ She hesitated. “I told you once before, a while ago, but maybe you need to hear it again. I know – we  _all_  know – this isn’t your fault, Endeavour, and we don’t blame you for it.”

 

He held her eye, almost defiantly, willing himself to keep a neutral expression. “It’s not a question of blame,” he said, although of course it  _was_ , “people still end up hurt.”

 

“Yes, love.” She reached out and patted his hand. “You as much as any of us. Why is your pain less important?”

 

He blinked, taken aback. “Because-“

 

Because he was second choice. Not even a choice; someone that Thursday would never have ended up with otherwise, someone that had been thrust upon them. Because there were three – four, including Thursday – of them, and only one of him, and in any version of balance that always meant he was of lesser consequence. Because they were each good, kind people, and Morse always felt as though he could never compare.

 

“It’s not,” she said, interrupting his thoughts. “He’s hurt us all by clinging on like this, and I was a fool not to realise it sooner. I was so  _glad_  that he wanted to stay, that he cared, that he wouldn’t just abandon us. But you were right in thinking that it wouldn’t work.”

 

He stayed silent now, mind whirring, unable to think of what to say or match her honesty with his own.

 

“I still want us to be a family, still want to be part of things. I suppose I’d thought we could skip ahead to that, without thinking about all of the changes that would need to happen. The separation. It was all too easy to let so many things continue the way they were before.”

 

Morse thought about DeBryn’s words from earlier, about worth. Here was a woman who he thought had probably defined her worth almost entirely by her relationships with her family. With her husband. He had undermined that link with Thursday – destroyed it, to some degree. And so she was redefining herself.

 

She was far stronger than Morse.

 

“I’ve brought you all such unhappiness,” he said quietly, and her hand gently slipped into his and squeezed.

 

“That’s the problem,” she said. “That’s all you see. You don’t see the good things you’ve brought us. How much we’ve all grown to love you.”

 

He looked up, startled, and she smiled sadly. “How could you not see that? To Sam and Joan you’re part of the family now; someone to confide in and help them and take sides against the other one in arguments.” She waited a moment, as though giving him time to absorb that. “And I’ve loved having you here – you’re so patient, Endeavour, not like the two of them. Always willing to help, always willing to listen. When you introduced me to your family you called me your friend – and I thought, yes, yes you really are.”

 

He’d thought it would be impossible for them to like him, really like him, so he’d been guarded, wary. And they’d liked him anyway. “I didn’t know.”

 

“No.” She ran her eyes over his face. “I don’t think that family of yours took care of you right, did they?”

 

And he withdrew – his hand from hers, his eyes across the room. His lips pressed firmly together as though desperately trying to keep something in, but he had nothing to say.

 

“Sorry, love, that wasn’t my place.” But she didn’t sound sorry. “I was just trying to say that – however things were with them, that’s not how they are with us.”

 

Morse swallowed around a lump in his throat, and felt strangely frozen. His eyes couldn’t track back to her, glued as they were to a slight tear in the wallpaper, and his hands hung limp and heavy against the covers.

 

“I’ll let you think about it, anyway. I think we tried too hard in all the wrong ways, before, but maybe we needed to do that to work out the right ones. Give this a chance, love.”

 

She was all the way to the door before his throat unlocked. “But not Thursday,” he said, and there was a croak in his voice. “You said that I was a part of the family to the rest of you. But he… to him I’ll always just be the person that he was forced to –“ He couldn’t say love, not to her. Not about her husband.

 

She leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms over her chest and watching him for a moment. “That’s the problem with two blokes,” she said after a moment. “You need a woman to make you sit down and talk.”

 

He didn’t know what to make of that, and she sighed.

 

“Do you think he regrets it?” she asked.

 

“Yes,” he said instantly.

 

“Why?”

 

He stared at her as though she was speaking another language. “Because it’s caused you all such misery. Hurt you all.”

 

She nodded, but her eyes seemed to be trying to communicate something he couldn’t grasp. “Of course he wouldn’t have wanted that. But Endeavour, even with that, even with things the way they are, I don’t think he regrets that you two formed a bond. Think about that.”

 

The empty frame of the door held his eyes fixed for many minutes after she left.

 

\------------------

 

He faced Thursday, clear eyed and awake, and said “I want to go downstairs.”

 

Win and Sam had just left for dinner at her sister’s; Win would then stay on. Joan had gone for a drink after work with a friend but she’d be home for dinner. At the moment that left the house empty, quiet but for the two of them.

 

Thursday eyed him like a fractious and slightly alarming kitten. “Well, go on then.”

 

Morse stared at him, having somehow expected the same orders to stay up here that he’d been getting from everyone else. Thursday raised an unimpressed eyebrow, and suddenly the world tilted back into its rightful place a bit; the usual interplay between the two of them re-established.

 

Morse had already been sitting on the edge of the bed, he dragged himself upright now, and was surprised to find that he really did feel a bit better. Thursday’s hands came to cup his elbows, and he was casually looked over.

 

“You can talk to Win later, when she calls, tell her all about how you’re doing.”

 

That was underhanded. Morse looked at Thursday with slightly admiring shock, and Thursday smiled with just his eyes.

 

Regardless, Morse made his way across the room, and was half-way down the stairs before he realised he was still in his pyjamas. The same ones he’d been wearing all day.

 

He looked down at himself and sighed. Calculated the effort to climb the stairs again and change.

 

“Joan’ll be delighted to see you in your jim-jams,” Thursday said cheerfully from behind him, and Morse gritted his teeth and carried on down.

 

Thursday left him to arrange himself on the couch, and went to check what needed to be done for dinner. Win had told Morse earlier that it would be gammon – she’d got it all ready, it just needed to be popped into the oven. Morse wondered who would be cooking, now that she was gone.

 

“Gammon,” Thursday said, coming back round the door. He took in Morse’s new position with a careful eye. “I like gammon.”

 

“You like most things,” Morse said, because he’d rarely seen anything that Thursday wouldn’t eat with relish.

 

“Mmm,” Thursday agreed. He came to stand next to the other end of the sofa, and Morse shifted his feet over to make room. “That alright?” he asked once he’d sat.

 

Morse nodded, his feet pleasantly warmed by Thursday half-sitting on them.

 

 -----------------

 

Dinner was… surprisingly not stilted. Joan seemed somewhat restored to her usual self, and she told Morse what she’d learned of Sam’s adventures away.

 

“And then he climbed out of the ditch, covered in mud, and said ‘Could you direct me to the nearest bus stop please?’ Apparently the little girl looked at her mum and said he was very polite for a mud monster.”

 

Joan’s eyes shone with mirth, and Morse summoned a smile. He was more tired than he’d expected to be just from coming downstairs, and was fighting a bit of a losing battle not to fall asleep on his plate.

 

“It’s the painkillers,” Thursday said to him a few minutes later, as his head dipped and jerked back up again. “The doctor told me they’d make you drowsy.”

 

Morse opened his mouth to protest, to say that the doctor hadn’t said any such thing to  _Morse_ , and then shut it again. Thursday and the doctor had spoken off to one side for a bit, when Morse had been putting his clothes back on; it was entirely possible. “Oh,” he said intelligently.

 

“Perhaps it’s time to get you upstairs, hmm? Sorry, Joan, I’ll be back down in a minute.”

 

“That’s alright,” she said with a smile. “I’ll just help myself to seconds while you’re gone.”

 

Now Thursday had to help him up the stairs, slinging an arm around his waist after his knees half buckled, and they did an awkward half sideways shuffle as they didn’t fit alongside on the narrow stairs.

 

“Sorry,” Morse slurred.

 

“Not your fault. I should have thought it through more – when to give you the pills.”

 

“It’s not that bad anymore.”

 

“Yes, because you’re actually taking proper painkillers. Win said you didn’t have anything up north except the one dose they gave you in the ambulance.”

 

“The doctor I saw gave me a paracetamol.”

 

“Oh, and I’m sure that helped,” Thursday said. “Though now you’re feeling a bit better it’s what you’ll go back to soon.”

 

Thursday got him settled, and stood by the side of the bed, looking slightly helpless. “I wish I’d been able to take care of you properly, after,” he said.

 

“Nothing you could do. We both had places to be.”

 

“I know, but…” Thursday hesitated. “I’m not saying it could have been otherwise, I’m just saying I  _wish_  I could have”

 

Morse was about to reiterate the same argument, and then the words penetrated. For a moment he let himself think about the fact that, regardless of the logistics of it, Thursday had _wanted_  to be there for him.

 

Surely the same was true for the whole of their relationship, from both sides.

 

He nodded, unable to think of an appropriate response, and Thursday hovered for a moment before heading back downstairs. He was asleep again before Thursday came to bed.

 

\--------------

 

“Can you give me a lift tomorrow then?” Sam asked over breakfast the next morning.

 

“Don’t fancy making your own way there again?” Thursday said sarcastically. Joan smirked.

 

“Come on, Dad.”

 

“Well, alright then. We’ll pick up your mother after church and go; she’ll want to see you off too.”

 

“Thanks!” The word came out muffled around a piece of toast half wedged in Sam’s mouth.

 

“Don’t mention it,” Thursday said dryly.

 

“Are we all going?” Joan asked curiously.

 

Thursday huffed. “Can if you want. Not sure it will do Morse much good to be squashed into the back seat with you two though.”

 

“I’d like to,” Morse said. He was feeling a bit brighter today, as though the world had paused for a moment to let him catch up.

 

“Well,” said Thursday. “Suppose we can have you in the front.”

 

Win, when they called her after breakfast, was on board. “Are you sure you’ll be alright though?” she fretted when Morse was on the line. “Going over all those bumps in the road? It’s a bit out in the country.”

 

“I’m feeling much better,” Morse insisted. “It can’t be worse than the journey the other day.”

 

She sighed. “You should be more careful.”

 

“Eleven then?”

 

“Alright, I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

 

Sam went out to the park to play football, it being a fine Saturday. ‘Almost like summer come early,’ Thursday had said.

 

“Do you think he’ll like it there?” Morse asked.

 

Thursday paused in his perusal of the newspaper and lowered it to look at Morse. “I think he’ll miss his friends,” he said seriously. “I think it’ll only take a week or two for it to stop being a grand adventure. Other than that,“ Thursday shrugged, “I’m not sure. He’s not afraid of hard work, when it’s something he wants. And he does seem to want this.”

 

“You aren’t hoping he’ll give up on the idea?”

 

“Course I am,” Thursday said sharply. “Not just for Win’s sake. I know what war’s like, and for all he’s not likely to be shipping out any time soon...” He cut off, and ruffled the pages of the paper. “To see your kids in that kind of danger – that’s not something any parent should have to live with.”

 

Morse nodded, face resting comfortably on his hand. “Oh, a chaffinch,” he said as one landed in the garden a minute later. Thursday looked up, and twitched in the way that signalled he was thinking about getting his binoculars.

 

“Besides,” Thursday added after a moment, “Win’s got enough to be worried about with it being just you that gets injured every five minutes.”

 

“I don’t exactly do it on purpose,” Morse said wryly.

 

“Hmm. Now there’s one who wouldn’t mind if you were to go back to a nice safe life of academics.”

 

Morse’s stomach clenched a little, and he put down his pencil.

 

Thursday gave him the briefest glance, and then pretended to go back to reading his paper. “Had any more thoughts about that?”

 

It had hardly been the right time – despite all of the enforced sitting around Morse had been doing the last couple of days.

 

“No,” he mumbled.

 

“Mmm,” Thursday said, and licked his finger to turn the page.

 

“It’ll be a year before I can sit the Sergeant’s again.” Morse sounded lost to his own ears - God knew what he sounded like to Thursday.

 

“That’s true.”

 

“And I-“ Morse hesitated. “This case. I did enjoy working it, but, well, I mainly enjoyed working it with you.”

 

There was the slightest rustle of the newspaper, and a glimpse of Thursday’s dark eyes. “And I you, lad. Despite… well, despite everything.”

 

“Have you… have you talked to Bright at all about it?”

 

The paper was cast aside entirely, and Thursday contemplated him meditatively. “Since that last conversation I told you about, you mean? I had a word with him yesterday, actually. Said the reason you were thinking of leaving was your frustration at being side-lined here – though it sounds like you already told him that. Said of course I’d support whatever you decided, but it would be a damn shame to lose you around the station. I, ah, pointed out how our effectiveness had gone down since you were pulled off working proper cases. Don’t let that go to your head now,” he added sternly.

 

Morse felt his face flushing red at the compliments, at the thought of Thursday fighting on his behalf. “What did he say?”

 

There was a long pause. “It’s difficult. His opinions haven’t really changed, not about a couple working together in the station.”

 

Morse nodded, dull acceptance seeping through him.

 

Thursday cleared his throat. “What has changed is his opinion of _you_. Morse, I – I don’t know if I told you before, but one of the reasons he removed you to general duties was because he was worried about your ability to handle things, what with the record of the broken bond.”

 

Morse’s eyes flashed up to meet Thursday’s, startled, and received a quick nod. “No – I never…”

 

“Well, since then he’s been paying attention. You’ve kept your head down, but your work’s been steady this last while, and the two of us have managed to keep out of trouble. And I meant what I said about your results from the range impressing him. Said something about you being a credit to the station.”

 

The red had spread to the top of Morse’s ears now, and he took a moment to contemplate the carpet.

 

“It was my father,” he said abruptly, and he hadn’t known he would say it until the words tripped off his tongue. “Who taught me to shoot.”

 

The sentence rang in his ears, and a bitter taste spread through his mouth. He waited a moment, but Thursday said nothing. A swift, darted glance briefly met Thursday’s measuring gaze, but another minute passed and there was still no word or movement.

 

“I…” Morse started, and then immediately cut himself off. Gulping back the words that would have followed; in shock that he had nearly spoken them.

 

Still nothing from Thursday. Another quick glance. Still watching.

 

“I don’t…”

 

And now there was the slightest stirring, and a gentle voice. “Take your time, lad.”

 

Morse leaned back in his chair, his gaze momentarily locked on some small detail in the carpet, and brought a hand up to run rough and tugging along the side of his head.

 

“It was something he said I should know,” he managed finally, and found that somehow changing the exact words had made it possible to speak them aloud.

 

His eyes flitted across the room again, found Thursday, saw his slow nod.

 

“I… He… I never-“ Morse faltered again, caught in endless loops over how to phrase what he wanted to say; words which seemed inadequate and betraying all at once. “He said it was something important,” he said haltingly. “That I wasn’t – that every boy should at least know how to shoot well. Or-” and here his jaw worked as the words fought him again, as he breathed in sharply through his nose and tried to force them. “Or what good was I, anyway?”

 

The constriction around his chest eased as the last word left his lips, but his next breath hitched unexpectedly. He looked away, not wanting to meet Thursday’s eyes.

 

“Well, I can see from your scores that you learned well.”

 

Morse almost flinched, but breathed through it.

 

“Lad,” Thursday said softly, and the empathy in his voice made the air _burn_ in Morse’s lungs. “It’s alright. There’s no need to-“

 

But Morse shook his head fiercely. Quickly, desperately, “He used to-“

 

And then stopped, because _God,_ _how had he almost said that_? How had he almost said _anything_ about his family? Why had he said so much already?

 

He levered himself stiffly out of his chair, moving with haste which made him wince.

 

“I have to-“ he started, but saw Thursday hold up a hand out of the corner of his eye.

 

“It’s alright, Morse,” Thursday said quietly. “You don’t need to make excuses. You just go on, now.”

 

Morse hesitated, upright now but still leaning one hand against the chair back for support. His eyes flicked to the door, imagining the quiet stillness of the kitchen or the safe solitude of the sewing room.

 

To be _alone_.

 

He took a deep breath, and then another.

 

What would he do, if he walked out of that door? Go and sit, and clench his hands into fists, and curse himself for his stupidity in speaking? Take half an hour to calm down? Promise himself to never speak so unthinkingly, so openly again? Not to Thursday, not to _anyone_?

 

“I hated him,” he said in a hushed voice, a confession as sacred as though he’d spoken it at church. His whole body was poised for flight, his eyes still fixed on the open door. “I _hated_ him. And then I hated _her_ even more.”

 

His ears were tuned for any slight sound in Thursday’s direction, but there was nothing for a long moment. Then, calm, smooth, “Families are difficult things. We all talk about how important family is, nowadays, but Morse,” and here Morse dared a quick look at him, eyes pulled against his will, “not all families deserve it. People are still _people_ , whether they’re parents or not, and there are a lot of people out there who…”

 

He left the words hanging, but Morse thought for himself about all the people they saw on the job, not even just the criminals but ordinary everyday folk who were so _petty_ or _self-centred_ or _cruel_.

 

“They took me in,” Morse said in a rush, turning to face Thursday. Thursday’s eyes were steady as they held his, reassuring somehow. “After – after Susan. Even though… They still took me in for a while. They didn’t have to.”

 

He didn’t know why he was defending them. Thursday shook his head slowly.

 

“One action doesn’t change a lifetime, Morse.”

 

And Morse swallowed, hard, as though those words were sudden permission for his chest to crack open and spill all of his feelings out.

 

“They aren’t bad people,” he said numbly. “They’ve always been good to Joyce, in their way.” Thursday just watched him carefully, and after a moment Morse gave a pained nod. “Not so much with me,” he said slightly hoarsely. “Especially after my mother…”

 

“I’m sorry, lad.”

 

Morse nodded again, and turned away; the moment suddenly too overwhelming to hold Thursday’s gaze. 

 

“Seeing you all here…”

 

There was a creak as Thursday leaned forward and got up, then the sound of his slippered feet making their way across the carpet. He stopped a couple of feet from Morse.

 

“Bit different, is it?” Thursday asked.

 

Morse almost choked on a laugh. “You have no idea,” he said, and the brightness of his words was sharp.

 

“I’m glad then, that you found us.”

 

Win’s voice, saying that Thursday didn’t regret this, even with _everything_ , rang through Morse’s mind.

 

“I am, sometimes,” he said, voice a little earnest, a little uncertain. He had no idea how it could manage to be both at once.

 

“We’ll have to work on that then,” Thursday said firmly, and then strong arms were reaching out to draw Morse in, to hold him loosely to Thursday’s side so that he could tuck his head against Thursday’s shoulder and _breathe_.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone adjusts to Morse being back in the house; Morse goes for his father's funeral.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long hiatus; back to the regular posting schedule. The end is now in sight!

They piled into the car the next morning with all of the excitement and squabbles that fitting five people in a cramped space brought. Win, Joan and Sam were in the back; Joan in the middle and complaining about Sam’s sharp elbows. It was just as well Morse was in the front, he thought to himself ruefully, or she’d have been dealing with that from both sides.

 

Win was still fretting as they set off. “Are you sure you packed everything, love?”

 

“Bit late now,” Thursday said wryly, glancing in the mirror.

 

“We can always turn around.”

 

“I’ve got everything Mum,” Sam said, but he turned towards her a few seconds later and gave her a smile. “Thanks.”

 

“It’s not like we can’t pop around and drop things off if you need them,” she mused. “You just let us know. It’ll be nice to come and visit.”

 

Morse’s lips twitched at the thinly concealed look of consternation that crept across Sam’s face.

 

“I’ll be pretty busy, Mum,” Sam said. “And it’s not like I won’t be coming back for dinners.” Every Sunday, they’d agreed - when he wasn’t coming back for the whole weekend.

 

“Of course,” Thursday said. “You’ll know the way – exactly which trains to take. After all, you’ve done it before.”

 

Morse saw Sam shoot his dad a scathing look in the mirror, saw Thursday’s grim smile.

 

\-------------------

 

Win seemed to relax once she met the Sergeant that would be in command of Sam while he was there. The front she’d been trying to hold onto, even while she fretted and smoothed down the shoulders of Sam’s coat, eased into a more genuine expression.

 

“Don’t you worry, ma’am, we’ll look out for him here. He’ll be a real help around the place, and we’ll make sure he doesn’t get up to any trouble.”

 

Win smiled shakily and wrapped Sam up in her arms, kissing the side of his head. He returned her hug with a rueful look over her shoulder at the rest of them.

 

Thursday and Sam’s leave taking was a little more awkward. Morse stood a ways apart with Joan while father and son cleared their throats and clasped arms awkwardly.

 

Joan rolled her eyes. “Honestly,” she said. “Men.”

 

Morse was fairly sure he was included in that remark, so felt it safest to say nothing.

 

Win came out from inspecting Sam’s tent a moment later and stood beside them. “My boy,” she said in a hushed voice, and Morse reached an arm out to the side to loop through hers.

 

“He’ll be alright, Mum,” Joan said - words of reassurance that Morse hadn’t been able to summon himself. “He’ll probably get kicked out after two weeks. Or he won’t be able to stomach the endless diet of potatoes, and he’ll come crawling home again.”

 

Win gave a muted laugh, but her eyes stayed fixed on Sam. “No,” she murmured. “No, I don’t think so.”

 

\------------------

 

“I’m so used to being strong for them,” Thursday admitted gruffly after they’d turned out the lights that night, his body a solid line of warmth bracketing Morse’s left side.

 

Morse made a low, querying noise.

 

“Just - it’s a relief, being able to talk to you. To say I’m scared, about Sam.” There was a pause. “And angry. That I’m sad to see Joan go, even if I’m happy for her too. That, well, that you know the truth of things behind – behind me and Win.” He let out a long sigh. “Sometimes I feel like you’re the only person I can talk to.”

 

It was, no doubt, meant exactly as Thursday had said it. But it felt like a rebuke, as though Thursday was pointing out that Morse didn’t share things in return. Morse didn’t even know what he would say. What it was that he should share.

 

He shuffled a little further into Thursday, and Thursday’s arm came to carefully lie across his chest. Several blinks into the darkness later, Morse cautiously said, “But you felt like you had to be strong for me too – that you had to hide things from me?”

 

“Said that was a mistake, didn’t I?”

 

They lay in silence for a moment.

 

“You’re right, though,” Thursday added. “Maybe it’s just what happens when you care about someone, that you want to protect them. And with you…” he cut himself off.

 

“You can’t afford to let me worry,” Morse finished awkwardly, thinking again of their previous problems with the bond.

 

“Hmm, not what I meant. You’ve, ah, been alright though? Despite all of this? Didn’t half give me a fright when you moved out. Imagined you lying passed out somewhere, ill like the last time. No one to help you.”

 

The hushed words caused a rush of guilt in Morse. It hadn’t even occurred to him that Thursday might fear for him. “It wasn’t like that,” he said. “I just – like you said, I needed to not be worried about it. So I had to not… be around it.”

 

He still couldn’t bring himself to say it had been a mistake. At the time there had literally seemed no other option, no way out.

 

Thursday’s fingers traced the neck of Morse’s vest. “Is there…” Thursday began cautiously. Trailed off. Started again. “I said before that you didn’t trust me.”

 

They lay and breathed together in the dark, Morse’s heart suddenly pounding. His mouth half opened in an instinctive denial, but the words never left his throat.

 

“Maybe that’s – I can’t say the situation has given you any reason to,” Thursday said slowly. “But if there’s something I’ve done-“

 

Morse shook his head, halting Thursday’s stumbling words. “No,” he said. And then, unexpectedly, “Yes.”

 

The arm around him tensed; Thursday seemed to almost stop breathing.

 

“Nothing,” Morse said after another moment.

 

“Oh, no,” Thursday breathed. “You’re not getting away with that one. Not after you managed to raise my hopes that you might actually  _talk_  to me.”

 

That merited more than a moment’s contemplation, and, though Thursday shifted restlessly beside Morse, he didn’t push again.

 

“We talked once,” Morse said finally, uneasily. “At DeBryn’s.”

 

Thursday turned a little further towards him, so that Morse could feel his breath puff over the side of his face.

 

“I told you the things I was thinking about,” Morse said more slowly. “And you told me that we’d find a way for it not to be like that.”

 

Thursday was still, silent. Remembering, Morse thought. “Hmm,” he said.

 

Morse couldn’t say the rest of what he was thinking – that maybe they’d tried a, little, but in the end…

 

“And then it all ended up exactly the way you feared,” Thursday said quietly. Morse tried to pull away, but Thursday kept his arm firmly in place. “I didn’t make sure that things were alright with you, and the bond, and like an idiot assumed I was the only one-”

 

“It’s not… I do understand,” said Morse hurriedly. “And it’s not like I was any better, with you. And I hurt you, when I left.”

 

Thursday was quiet for a moment. “I won’t pretend that’s not true,” he said in a low voice. “But that doesn’t account for what happened in the first place, and I owe you an explanation. No, I do,” he said, when he must have felt the motion of Morse shaking his head in the dark.

 

He pressed closer, lips coming to rest against Morse’s temple, nuzzling ever so slightly until Morse’s muscles unwound again. His voice, when he started to speak again, was very soft. “We’ve both come into this with the weight of our pasts, you and I. I can’t pretend to completely understand yours or the way it makes you feel and act. Mine is guilt,” he said with brutal honesty. “Guilt over the way things went with Win, guilt over my betrayal of her.”

 

Morse’s breathing sounded very loud in the dark.

 

“I told you then that I wanted to be with you, wanted to make it work, and I meant it, Morse, I did. But to see that look in her eyes every day, like I was betraying her over and over, like I wouldn’t have given anything not to hurt her… Well. How could I think of myself first, of my own selfish needs, when I knew how it would make her feel? And at every turn you were telling me that it was fine, that everything was going to be fine – and I know that you were just trying to make it easier for me. I must have known at the time, but it was so much simpler not to deal with it, to just keep letting it slide. And that’s my fault,” he said, all quiet ferocity, “letting that go. It was my problem, and my decision – nothing that you did wrong, Endeavour. I need you to know that – it’s not because I didn’t care enough about you. It’s just that I was so paralysed by my own guilt that I didn’t do  _anything_ , and ended up hurting everyone. And I’m sorry for that, love, I’m so sorry.”

 

Morse’s breathing had at some point become uneven, and he struggled a little to swallow around the lump in his throat. He was always stunned by the almost casual honesty which Thursday could bring to bear with no warning; which tore down boundaries and masks as easily as though they were paper. That must be something you learned with marriage, he thought.

 

Impossible to be anything but equally honest in his response; impossible to know what to say.

 

“I don’t know what you  _want_  from me,” he managed finally, voice cracking a little.

 

Thursday’s arm lifted from around him, and gentle fingers came to brush across his hair. “How’d you mean?”

 

But Morse could explain it no better than he already had, and gave the slightest negative shake of his head. Thursday must have known he’d reached his limit, somehow, because he pressed a long kiss to the side of Morse’s head, and then settled down beside him.

 

“Alright then,” Thursday said quietly. “It’s late. I didn’t mean to ramble on at you.”

 

“I like talking to you,” Morse said automatically, and Thursday snorted.

 

“No you don’t; it’s like pulling teeth. And I – well, I’m sorry for that too.”

 

“You need to stop apologizing for everything,” Morse murmured, drowsiness stealing in now.

 

Thursday was quiet for long enough that Morse started to slide into sleep. “It was important to tell you. But you’re right - no point saying it, I’ll just have to show you.”

 

“Mmm,” Morse agreed, without really hearing.

 

\-------------------

 

His memories of the conversation were a little hazy the next morning, though he was still embarrassed by the parts he did remember, but they were brought into sharp clarity when Thursday reached over and took his hand at the breakfast table, thumb skimming across the top of his knuckles.

 

Morse froze, tea cup half way to his mouth, and his eyes flicked to Thursday then to Joan. She was daintily scraping jam across her toast at the other side of the table and didn’t seem to have noticed. The awkward silence in the room caused her to look up after a moment. After taking in Morse’s deer-in-headlights expression and Thursday’s stubborn grip on his hand, she arched an eyebrow.

 

“Need a bit more contact for the bond, love,” Thursday said. “Stop it going all wonky.”

 

She gave a little smile and picked up her toast. “That a technical term, is it?” Her voice was light, teasing. Morse relaxed a little, but he couldn’t help but remember how good she’d been at hiding her feelings, before.

 

“Wonky? Oh yes, it was on all of the forms the doctors gave us.”

 

“You’re being silly, Dad,” she said fondly. “Finish your breakfast, or you’ll be late.”

 

\--------------

 

It was odd, being in the house by himself that day. Morse didn’t think it had happened in the entire time he’d been living with them. The house felt different when it was empty, as though everything that made it cozy and  _home_  had somehow been removed.

 

He shuffled from room to room for an hour, trying to work out what to do with himself. Eventually he set up his record player, which Thursday had fetched the day before. Thursday had left it on the side table in the living room, and Morse had no desire to carry it upstairs. He’d listen to it down here. He chose a record without his usual care; put it on. Not too loud, no, but enough, and the music filled the whole room and spilled over him in joyous waves.

 

He sat down in the armchair and closed his eyes; leaned back and allowed the music to thrill down to his bones.

 

He’d never done that here, in this house. He’d never been this free.

 

\----------------

 

He listened to a whole album, and then pottered around the kitchen making himself a cheese sandwich for lunch. Joan had taken over making Thursday’s sandwich this morning – Morse had seen her putting ham in it and wondered how Thursday would adapt to the change in his routine.

 

The pantry was mostly still well stocked, but the small fridge was a little empty after the weekend. Win had gone shopping almost every day, Morse knew, had sometimes spent hours cooking dinner. He wondered exactly how they were going to adapt to this – if anyone else had even thought about what they would be eating tonight.

 

The afternoon loomed ahead of him; a grim spectacle now that he was alert and wishing for some way to occupy his time. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy reading, but the idleness wore at him. He wanted to go for a walk, to go to the pub or the library or to  _work_. But he was stuck here, useless and not knowing what to do.

 

His mind wouldn’t settle, and he fidgeted his way through the hours; putting his book aside with a loud sigh every half an hour and walking awkwardly through the rooms on the ground floor. He was still walking with a limp, still automatically reaching for the nearest object or wall to steady himself, but he could do it without as much pain now compared to before.

 

There was really no reason he couldn’t be back at work, he thought, irritated. Might as well sit there as here.

 

Later in the afternoon he took all of the crosswords DeBryn had given him, plus the ones from the last couple of days, and erased all the answers. Started again. But having done them once the clues were no challenge, and he gave up after the first one.

 

“What kind of a clue was that anyway?” he asked the empty dining room. “Who writes these things?”

 

Which led to thoughts of Rosalind Calloway, and her beautiful music – one of the only things to get him through the time after his mother’s death, after Susan – which was forever tainted now.

 

The hours ground past, until finally as evening approached he went into the kitchen again and contemplated the problem of dinner.

 

Soup, he decided.

 

There was no time to make proper stock, so he dug out an Oxo cube and then lined vegetables up on the counter. Carrots and parsnip and swede. He eyed the bag of potatoes for a minute, and added a few. And celery. Well, it would be interesting, at least.

 

Luckily, Joan was clever and had picked up fresh bread from the bakery on her way into work that morning.

 

“I was thinking it would probably be sandwiches for tea,” she said as she came in, smiling as she sniffed the air appreciatively, “but this is better! Need a hand?”

 

“It’s just simmering now,” he said. “Good idea about the bread.”

 

“Excellent. Now, go and sit down – don’t make me tell Mum that you were on your feet all day.”

 

Joan was a force of nature, Morse had discovered, only marginally less fiercesome than Win, so he went and sat.

 

“It’s Mum,” Joan called from the hall a little while later, a few minutes after the phone had rung. “She wants to talk to you.”

 

He leant against the wall next to the phone as he retrieved the receiver, and rolled his eyes at Joan as she dragged a foot-stool out of the living room for him to sit on.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Hello love! How are you?”

 

“I’m fine.” He grimaced to himself, and elaborated. “It’s a bit easier to walk now.”

 

“Well I hope you’ve been taking it easy,” she said sternly.

 

“I got really bored, today,” he admitted. She laughed.

 

“You’ll have to find a hobby.”

 

He  _hmmed_ non-committally. “So how was your day?”

 

She told him about being at her sister’s, about Sam – who had just rung her. She said it was very odd, being a guest and not having to run around all the time.

 

“I mean, I’m helping out, of course, but we’re all odds and ends at the moment – she keeps feeling like she has to say no when I offer, but I can’t let her do all the work! Still, it’s giving me some time to catch up on my knitting and sewing, and they’ve got a new television here - it’s ever so big!”

 

As the conversation was winding down, Morse somewhat apologetically said, “I’m afraid he’s not home yet.”

 

No need to say which he Morse was referring to.

 

“Oh, that’s alright, I knew it was too early to catch him. You just give him my love, and take care, Endeavour.”

 

“Alright,” he said, and then goodbye.

 

He lingered in the hall, staring at the phone, until Joan came out of the living room and eyed him curiously.

 

“I’m fine,” he said quickly, seeing her come forward as though to help him up. “Sorry, I was just thinking for a minute.”

 

She stayed where she was, head tilted to one side, then gave a little nod and disappeared again.

 

The thought wouldn’t leave him though. Why had Win rung when she knew Thursday wouldn’t be home?

 

\----------------

 

 

“I’ll tell you what Win used to say to me,” Thursday said after supper.

 

Morse glanced up from the book he was idling through – Wordsworth – and gave him an inquiring look.

 

“Bearing in mind that I’m not the best of patients,” Thursday explained. “And get a wee bit aggravated when I can’t do much.”

 

Joan, legs tucked under her on the sofa, snorted. At Thursday’s glance she kept her eyes fixed on her magazine and an innocent look on her face.

 

‘Like I said,” Thursday resumed, after a wry smile in her direction. “You’re no better, by the look of you – maybe it’s a police thing. Anyhow, she always said that I already knew I was ill and couldn’t do whatever it was that I was upset about - work, or missing the game, or taking the kids somewhere. There was no point in me sitting around sulking about it, I might as well get on with something else that I  _could_  do.”

 

Morse forced down a quick response. Nodded, eyes down and to the side.

 

Thursday picked up his pipe from the table and inspected it for a moment. “Yes,” he said. “That’s how I always reacted when she said it to me. Still, something to think about.”

 

They all sat together quietly; Thursday smoking his pipe, Joan and Morse reading. At about half past seven, just as Thursday switched on the radio, Joan got up and made ready to leave.

 

“I’m meeting Alice and the others,” she said. “We’ll go out for drinks, maybe dancing.”

 

“Not The Moonlight Rooms?” Thursday asked.

 

“Dad! No, of course not.”

 

“Hmm, you be safe now.” And he pulled her in for a quick hug as she passed by.

 

Once she was upstairs, doing whatever mysterious things women did right before they went out, Thursday beckoned Morse over to the couch. “If it’ll be alright for your hip?”

 

“Should be fine.”

 

He sank down into the worn fabric and eased himself back until his body was buffered by well used cushions and Thursday himself.

 

“I don’t really know what to do with myself,” Morse said after a moment, book held lax in one hand.

 

“Mmm,” said Thursday, who clearly had half an ear on Morse and half on the radio program.

 

Morse leaned sideways a little, his head coming to rest against Thursday’s shoulder.

 

“Could we have DeBryn over for dinner one day?” he asked.

 

“Of course,” Thursday said absently. And then, “DeBryn?”

 

“Yes. I’d got used to going to the pub with him again. And he came to see me on Friday.”

 

“Yes, Win said. That was nice of him. Course we can have him round; I ought to have thought of it before. Anyone else you want to invite?”

 

“No. Well, not now. Maybe in a bit I could invite my sister down for the weekend?”

 

And that brought Thursday’s attention around fully as he craned his neck to look down at Morse’s face. “Your sister? How is she, anyway?”

 

“She sounded… well, fine I suppose, when I talked to her.” She’d rung on Saturday to let him know about the funeral. “I’ll see her again on Wednesday.”

 

“Wednesday,” Thursday repeated, considering. Morse had mentioned it, of course, at the time, but it sounded like Thursday hadn’t really thought about it.

 

“I’ll be fine by then,” Morse said quickly. “I can take the train up tomorrow night and take a taxi from the station – hardly any walking at all.”

 

Thursday was silent, and after a moment reached over to turn off the radio. “It’s not that I don’t think you’ll be alright,” he said, and Morse could hear the care he was taking not to provoke him. “I just – I don’t like to think of you going on your own. Of you having to… be there.”

 

Morse let his fingers drift to one side, until they bumped against the outside of Thursday’s thigh where it rested against his own. Thursday’s hand came over to meet them, and then he waited him out.

 

After a while, “It’s silly,” Morse said in a hushed voice. “How much I don’t want to go back there.” He swallowed, turned his face away. “It’s just a place, and I should be used to Gwen by now. And I want to be there for Joyce.”

 

“It’s not always so simple,” Thursday said, clearly feeling his way through the conversation. “I’ve the impression you have more than enough reasons to feel that way about it. Not to mention the reason you’re going.”

 

“I’m worried about-“ Morse hesitated, grappling with his own pride. “I’ve, uh, been supporting them a bit, for a while. My father… well, there was never much money to spare. Joyce was thinking of moving out – she never said, but I think she’d had enough. But now she won’t, I think, not unless she meets someone. And she works, but they’ll need more… And I was thinking I should really do more – make sure they’re alright somehow, but I don’t know  _how_.”

 

Thursday’s arm slipped behind him, pulled him a bit closer, and Morse carefully didn’t look up. He might see… what? Pity? Bewilderment, that Morse resented the demands of his family?

 

“It’s good of you to help out, lad, but you don’t know what they actually need yet, so I wouldn’t go over-worrying on it. It sounds like your sister is a sensible sort of lass – maybe you need to have a chat with her at some point. Ask her to be honest about the situation and what they need. I know a DC’s salary isn’t much, but I’m sure we can make things work.”

 

“Oh, I could never-“

 

“I’m just saying we could always adjust things a bit. I mean, you do more around the house than Sam and Joan combined, and even Joan only puts a bit towards food. We’d never begrudge you supporting your family, love.”

 

Morse nodded, feeling a bit awkward about the conversation. Sensing this, Thursday shrugged against him. “Like I said, take it as it comes.” And then, “Morse? You do – I mean, I was just assuming – but… You do want to stay here, now?”

 

Morse thought about the conversation he’d had with Thursday before, when he said he’d wanted his space; that he didn’t necessarily wantto live with them. That might have been wrong, in hindsight, but now things would be so different as to be unrecognisable. If Sam stayed at his new job and then joined the army, if Joan moved out, then it would just be he and Thursday and Win. And for all that the presence of Thursday’s children made some things more difficult, they’d also been a buffer to a certain degree.

 

What did he  _want?_

 

“Yes,” he said, and then cleared his throat. “Yes. I’m still not – not sure of how it will be. But I want to.”

 

“Alright,” Thursday said. “Morse, if it’s – if it’s not working, if you’re unhappy, I need you to tell me.”

 

And who would Thursday tell, wondered Morse.

 

\---------------------

 

 

 “I can get the day off work,” Thursday said worriedly, the next morning. “Go with you.”

 

“No – I told you, it’ll be fine. And you can’t afford to be away at the moment; you said you were buried in paperwork.”

 

“All the more reason,” Thursday grumbled, then sighed. “Win then. You’d not mind if she went with you, and she would in a heartbeat.”

 

“I’m fine by myself. Please,” Morse added, when Thursday opened his mouth again. “This is how I want it. I’m seeing her for lunch today anyway.”

 

Thursday hovered until the last moment after he’d put on his jacket and grabbed his hat. He ducked in to kiss Morse’s cheek, to turn a little so that his lips glanced over Morse’s while Joan went into the kitchen.

 

“I’m still taking you to the station,” he said firmly. “Four o’ clock?”

 

“I’ll see you then,” Morse said, and nodded as Thursday and Joan left the house.

 

Only a few hours to potter around before Win came, and then her slight form was gathering him in with a lengthy hug and a, “I’m not hurting you, am I?”

 

“No” he said automatically. He was suddenly struck by the progression of their relationship - from those first days when every contact was a shock, to now, when he accepted the hug as his due and didn’t doubt her care and affection towards him.

 

“How are you? Let me look at you?”

 

She pulled back and fussed, and he smiled, the expression not feeling strange on his face.

 

“We’ve missed you,” he said simply, and found the words easy to say.

 

“And I’ve missed all of you,” she said, and her eyes started to mist so he gestured her through to the kitchen and shut the front door.

 

The kitchen had somehow become their place – where they stood together in silence with their hands wrapped around a steaming mug of tea. He associated the bright tiling with their quiet conversations and her confiding in him, with hearing her bright, uncomplicated laughter at the small things he said.

 

He stood back and let her put the kettle on, let her fish out the cups. He knew how much she liked being the one to make the tea, and he certainly didn’t want her feeling like a guest here, in her own home.

 

“So, tell me everything then?” she said.

 

The corner of his mouth curled up, and he tried.

 

She’d brought a cake with her – Victoria sponge – so after they dutifully nibbled a bit of bread and cheese they skipped straight to dessert.

 

“This is excellent,” Morse said earnestly, taking another slice.

 

“It’s turned out rather well. I was going to say that we should leave some for the others, but,” and she eyed the giant cake, which still easily had three quarters left, “I don’t know, I think we can finish it.”

 

“Well, I’m game,” Morse said, taking a gulp of a fresh cup of tea, and she laughed delightedly.

 

“I was meaning to ask you about the garden,” he said a little while later. “I mean, I can’t really – not at the moment-“ and he stumbled over the words. “But, is there someone else around here who might be able to come and lend a hand?”

 

He’d known her long enough to trace her progression of thought. To see her mouth open to offer to come round and do it herself; to see her change her mind and think no, it was a good thing that he was taking the initiative - that this was a good idea.

 

“There’s the neighbour’s across the street,” she said no more than half a minute later, after blowing on her own cup of tea to cool it down. “Number seventeen. They’ve got a boy a few years younger than Sam; he’ll be looking to make a few bob. He won’t have a clue what he’s doing, mind you, but if you stand over him the whole time he’ll be alright. Nice lad. David, I think his name is.”

 

“Alright,” Morse said quietly.

 

“I could go round on my way out.”

 

“I can walk a bit now,” he said dryly, then immediately afterwards thought  _– but of course, the neighbours won’t really know me, I’d be a stranger_.

 

Win didn’t point that out. “It’s no trouble, especially since you’ll be travelling later. Don’t want you to overtire yourself.”

 

It had been almost a week now, since the shooting. A week tomorrow. His father’s funeral.

 

“I-“

 

“Do you want me to come up with you again?” she asked. Her eyes were kind and the offer genuine. “It would be no trouble. I can drive you up – I know the way now – and find a B&B for the night, and…”

 

“Thank you,” he said, and reached over and squeezed her hand gently where it rested on the table top. “I’ll be alright. Really.”

 

She looked unconvinced. “Did himself offer? Because I’m sure he would take you if you asked, if you needed him there.”

 

“Yes,” Morse said. “He mentioned it again this morning. I don’t know, I just – I almost feel like it will be easier to get through by myself. I’m not just not trying to be a bother,” he added a few seconds later, and her lips twitched in a smile.

 

“Funerals are tough things,” she said softly. “I still remember my father’s. My mum couldn’t speak the whole day; I had to do everything for her. I was the oldest, you see – my sister would have helped, but she didn’t know how. And my brother was off in the war. And of course Fred was away too.”

 

“I’m sorry,” he said. She hadn’t spoken much of her father before, aside from occasional warm memories of her childhood.

 

“He was a strict man.” She paused for a moment, lost in memory. “But he loved us all, so much. He worshiped the ground my mother walked on. She was devastated that he died so young – we all were.”

 

“I – I wish my father hadn’t died,” Morse said after a minute, not looking at her. “But mainly so that they could all go on existing up there by themselves and I wouldn’t have to deal with them.” He drew in a ragged breath. “What sort of person does that make me?”

 

She turned her hand so that it covered his. “I didn’t know your father, Endeavour, but I know you. I can’t imagine he was the kind of man who deserved your respect, if you couldn’t give it to him.”

 

Morse choked out a laugh, looked down at his plate and teased apart the remainder of the piece of cake with his fork. A moment later he let the fork fall with a clink; rested his elbow on the table and buried his head in his hand.

 

“God,” he said. “I still can’t believe it.”

 

“That’s alright,” she said, calm, soothing. “That’s perfectly normal. You don’t have to deal with it all at once.”

 

“What am I going to do?” he asked.

 

He hadn’t even meant anything specific when he asked it, but her hand gripped his like a vice.

 

“You’re going to get through the funeral and come home, that’s what you’re going to do. And you’re going to stay here, and take care of yourself, and Fred, and be  _happy_.”

 

She was so fierce, so firm in her opinions, Win. This was how she wanted it to be, so this was how it would be.

 

Morse massaged his temples with thumb and forefinger. “And you?” he asked quietly.

 

She didn’t reply, but her grip didn’t falter.

 

\----------------

 

Thursday dropped him off at the train station with an unhappy expression and an extracted promise that Morse would ring them that evening to let them know he’d got there alright – that he would ring the station if there was any problem, anything at all, so that Thursday could come and get him.

 

They parted with a secret brush of hands; fingers teasing and sliding against each other, and then Thursday was waving him off from the platform. Morse had a strong feeling of deja-vu as he remembered the same scene the week before, Thursday looking just as grim.

 

Ironically the train was probably a smoother journey than the car would have been – the carriages shook and rattled a bit, but there was no sudden braking or potholes to jolt over. Morse closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but his mind whirred away incessantly on the problem of he and Thursday and Win and work and his future and the  _not knowing_  which was driving him to distraction.

 

He arrived at the house at about half past eight, wincing as he straightened out of the taxi. All of the downstairs lights were on in the house, and for a moment it looked like a stranger’s house; just another building, no associations here. Then the familiar sweep of dread in his stomach, the new thought of  _he’s dead, my father’s dead_ , which some moments Morse still found himself forgetting.

 

“Endeavour,” Joyce said, pleased, as she opened the door. “How are you?” She assessed him exactly as Win had, and he thought,  _she’ll be a fantastic mother one day_.

 

“Better,” he said simply, and stepped inside. She hugged him with unreserved affection, and for a minute all he could feel was  _glad_ ; glad that she had grown up in this place and yet still remained kind and true and herself. That she still loved him - despite her parents, despite him abandoning her here and moving away.

 

“Good, although I’m not sure I should believe you. It’s not like you would have even told me you were injured!” She didn’t like to say ‘been shot,’ he’d discovered last week; as though the words themselves scared her.

 

“I got it properly looked at, and I’ve been resting,” he said. A quick look around the hall produced no sign of Gwen, and he turned to Joyce in query. Joyce’s mouth turned down.

 

“She’s praying,” she whispered. “Upstairs, by his bed.”

 

Upstairs, where the lights had all been off. Praying in the dark.

 

“Come on,” she said, “Let me get you something to eat; you must be starving.”

 

“I had a sandwich on the train – I’m fine, really.”

 

“Something to drink then?” And she soon had him planted at the small kitchen table with two glasses and an unopened bottle of scotch.

 

“I didn’t know you liked whiskey,” he said, as he opened the bottle.

 

“I don’t, not really. But it’ll go to waste, otherwise, and I can’t think of a better time for it.”

 

Morse tilted his head towards the door.

 

“Oh, she won’t come down. Hang on though.” She closed the door, then came to sit on the other stool again. “Actually, should you be drinking that?”

 

“I’m off most of the painkillers,” he said as he poured. “And we can always say that this is for medicinal purposes.”

 

She laughed, and he remembered suddenly the nights that they had snuck downstairs after their parents were asleep – sat in the dark in the kitchen or living room and told each other stories. She had been the only thing that had made being in this house bearable at all.

 

“Joyce,” he said, the words feeling thick and unwieldy in his mouth. “I’m – I was bad at keeping in touch, when I left.” He hesitated. “I’m sorry for that. That I – that I left like that.”

 

Both times. Going to university – headed out of the house at a run. Leaving her and all of her dreams behind. And then when he’d stayed with them after Susan, his head feeling like it was wrapped in cotton wool and despair. At some point he’d gained enough awareness to realise that being there was making it worse, that he couldn’t stomach facing his father or Gwen anymore, and he’d left without a word, without a note. Joyce had phoned around and finally found him staying with a friend in Oxford, and her fearful scolding had slid right off of him as though her feelings meant nothing at all.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

 

She was quiet for a minute. “I understood,” she said, and he didn’t ask which time. “You never belonged up here – this place is too small for you.”

 

He took another sip of the scotch; watched her do the same and wrinkle her nose at the taste.

 

“How are you doing?” he asked after they’d drunk in silence for a while.

 

She gave a little shrug, a quick, false smile which dropped after a second. “Everyone keeps asking that. Actually, everyone keeps asking mum that, and she keeps answering for me.  _Oh, she’s a real blessing, she’s so strong, she was her father’s angel_.” Joyce’s mimicry of her mother’s voice would have been hilarious if Morse’s eyebrows hadn’t been rising higher in disbelief with each phrase. “I know,” she said in reply to his look.

 

“Well,” he said after a moment. “I’m asking you.” He ran his fingers around the rim of the glass, dipped a curious fingertip in and then watched the alcohol slowly evaporate off his skin.

 

It took her a long time to answer. “I don’t know.”

 

It took a long time before Morse said back, “I don’t know either.”

 

\----------------

 

He was in Joyce’s bedroom again that night, but couldn’t have slept more than a couple of hours. The bed wasn’t uncomfortable, but, now that it had been reminded of the necessity of Thursday’s presence, Morse’s body didn’t want to sleep without it.

 

He tossed and turned, and thought of the room just down the hall where his father had died.

 

The morning dawned cool and cloudy, and Joyce met him downstairs with an, “I think it’s going to rain.”

 

Gwen stood by the stove, her back a rigid line of disapproval. “Made it then, did you?”

 

“Yes,” he said, and sat at the table.

 

“Suppose you’ll be wanting breakfast?”

 

“I’ll just have some toast. I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”

 

She turned, pot in hand, and stared him down. “There’s scrambled eggs,” she said, tone short. “Unless that’s not to your taste.”

 

“No, that’s fine.”

 

A plate was delivered unceremoniously a minute later. Joyce said, “I was going to make some toast to go with it. Did you want some, Mum?”

 

He ate, but the food was tasteless and ashen in his mouth, and he was counting down the hours until he could leave – there was a train at two o’ clock, and another at half past three. After that he’d have to wait until almost six. He didn’t want to stay another night – a heavy weight settled on his chest even at the thought of it.

 

“You won’t fit in the car to go from the church to the wake,” Gwen said as he was finishing. “You’ll have to find your own way.”

 

Joyce drew breath as if to speak on his behalf, and Morse stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Alright.”

 

The funeral itself passed in a blur. There was a procession of stiff, awkward grimaces before and after as people gave their condolences, and a strange warping of time in between when the heavy accusation of the casket hung at the front of the church.

 

Of the three of them in the front row, Joyce had been the only one to cry.

 

Lowering the coffin into the grave, scattering a handful of dirt and being told to think of the good memories of this man, to wish him peace and serenity in heaven and hope to one day see him again, and Morse was nothing but  _numb_. No hatred. No love. Nothing at all, as though his father was a void and all Morse could do was pull away from thoughts of him to avoid getting sucked into the hole.

 

He rode with some of the neighbours in their car – an awkward, silent ride in which they had no idea what to say to him and he no inclination to speak. Gwen, Joyce, the priest and deacon and a ‘close friend’ rode in the first car, and Morse knew in his gut that she’d arranged it that way just to spite him.

 

The wake was an odd reflection of that first day after Morse’s father had died. People milling around; not knowing what to say and so spouting endless platitudes which made Morse cringe and turn away. He wanted to hide in a corner but didn’t, said  _I’ll just get through the next few minutes_  to himself so many times that the words ceased to mean anything.

 

There was a sit down meal. Morse was between two people he had never met before – someone his father had used to work with and a neighbour that was new in the last two years. They asked in polite tones about his job, if he was married, and then turned away to either side after he failed to ask the prescribed pleasantries in return.

 

Meal finished, he went to find his sister, who’d been doing all the dutiful mingling and talking he couldn’t manage.

 

“You’re off then?” she asked, drawing him to one side.

 

He nodded, a tide of guilt washing over him.

 

“Alright,” she said without recrimination, and gave his arm a quick squeeze. “Let them take care of you, won’t you?”

 

His eyes darted up to meet hers; red rimmed, but clear and non-accusatory.

 

“I’d like it if you came down to visit, in a few weeks,” he said. “Come and stay the weekend. I’d like to see you.”

 

A small smile lit her face, warming it for a moment before sadness drained it away again. “I’d like that too.”

 

They nodded to each other, and then he slipped out of the room and phoned a taxi; left it all behind him with the feeling of something unfinished, forgotten,  _not right_.  

 

\--------------------

 

He made it back as evening set in, and the door to the house opened as though Thursday had been waiting for him. The warm light spilling from the hallway seemed almost blinding against the twilight.

 

Morse blinked, blinked again, and moved slowly inside as Thursday ushered him in with a hand on his shoulder. His bag was taken from his grasp, a warm hand rubbed the back of his neck, and then Thursday was moving away ahead of him down the hall.

 

“-got dinner just warming now, be ready in a bit. Joan wanted to make you something nice for tonight, so… Morse?”

 

Morse realized he’d stopped a few feet from the door. He dragged his gaze to meet Thursday’s, traced his eyes over the face of someone that loved him.

 

“Yes. That’s fine,” he said, and his voice sounded distant and  _wrong_.

 

“Morse.”

 

Thursday moved closer in snapshots; Morse couldn’t quite track his movements. Time pitched and yawed around him, slowing and stretching and then suddenly snapping back again.

 

“You’re alright, love, you’re alright now,” Thursday was saying as his ears tuned back in.

 

Morse wanted to say that he was  _fine_ , but somehow he couldn’t quite catch his breath. Couldn’t coordinate his limbs to take his coat off, couldn’t stop the frantic  _beatbeatbeat_ of his heart.

 

“I…“ he rasped, but the rest of the words slipped away. His hand thrust blindly out to the side to catch the solid foundation of the wall, to feel it cool beneath his palm.

 

“Alright, Morse, alright.”

 

Morse closed his eyes and let the world spin.

 

“Give us a minute, Joan” he heard dimly, as though from very far away, and then careful hands were cupping his shoulders, were holding him and not letting go. “Breathe, lad, in and out, just breathe. You’ll be fine, just breathe.”

 

His heart eventually calmed, his breathing eased, and he pulled away. He’d been  _fine_ all day, the whole journey back.

 

Thursday apparently read the direction of his thoughts because he said, “None of that now - think I don’t recognise that when I see it? I’ve had the odd turn myself, after a case.” After the war. “Nothing to be ashamed of.”

 

“Sorry,” Morse said, dry-mouthed. “I don’t know what came over me.”

 

Thursday huffed, but didn’t say anything more, and after a little while Joan came down and they had dinner.

 

Neither of them asked about his trip or his father that night.

 

\--------------

 

Morse felt like he was drifting, over the next few days. He tried to combat his restlessness, doing a little more each day. Managing the short walk to the corner shop to buy a few basic groceries. Writing crosswords for himself, filling in old, empty grids with new words and making up clues for them. He even rang Dorothea Frazil, and asked how one became a contributor towards the crosswords in the paper, and she told him to mail a few examples over and they’d see. He hired the boy across the street to do some gardening as Win had suggested, and supervised him to make sure that he didn’t pull up any of the bulbs.

 

He picked up his books again, in a serious effort to decide whether he really wanted to go back to university. He didn’t know how it would work – if he would have to start from scratch or could somehow resume part-way through – but he read and read and read and retrieved his old essays to flip through. Thursday watched in the evenings with bemused interest and slight pride, and whenever Morse looked up and caught his gaze he smiled.

 

Thursday… Every night Thursday held him close, and kissed him, and refused to do much else. He’d accidentally jostled Morse that first morning a week ago and caused him pain. “You need to heal,” he said now, and it would have been more frustrating if Morse’s libido didn’t seem to have dropped out of existence.

 

Before he knew it almost a week had gone by since the funeral, and he had a routine now – meeting Win for lunch every other day, playing scrabble or cards with Joan and Thursday a couple of times a week. Sam had come back for the weekend with a bag of washing and tales to tell, and for a moment when Win was there for Sunday dinner Morse had allowed himself to think that it felt like home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: drama and long requested smut!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another threat to Morse's life, and Thursday's reaction to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter came about at the direct request of ElwritesFanworks ;)
> 
> Please note the rating change, everyone. It'll be pretty obvious where to stop reading should you wish to!

It was just over two weeks since he’d been shot that the knock came on the door in the early evening.

 

“I’ll get it,” Joan called as she thudded down the stairs, and Morse smirked into his book at the thought that she might have a gentleman caller she didn’t want him to know about.

 

The voices by the door were quiet, and after a moment he tuned them out. Distantly heard the door close again.

 

Then, “ _Morse,_ ” quiet and frightened.

 

He looked up, twisting to see the doorway of the living room, and the unreality of the picture stopped it from registering for a moment. There was Joan, eyes wide with fear, hands held trembling in front of her. There was the silver shine of the gun pressed to the side of her head, and there was the shark-like grin of Vince Kasper standing behind her.

 

The book was set aside, and Morse rose very slowly to his feet, hands slightly raised on either side to demonstrate he wasn’t armed.

 

“Mr Kasper,” he said. “What are you-?”

 

Vince stepped in closer behind Joan, and Morse saw her eyes squeeze shut as the barrel of the gun pressed harder against her head.

 

“Ha, you thought they could keep me there?” The man’s eyes were wild, but his voice was hard. “I thought I’d come pay my old friends a visit.”

 

Kasper waved Joan across the room with the gun, and she took a few quick steps to stand next to Morse. As she moved Morse stepped away from the couch, trying to get some manoeuvring room.

 

“So, here we all are,” Vince said, sounding pleased.

 

“Why are you doing this?” Morse asked, trying to keep his voice even. “The punishment for bribery isn’t-“

 

“Your old man thinks he can just push us around,” Vince snapped. “When he’s nothing but an old fart who can’t do his job. He wants to tell us where to go, and what to do? Thinks he can embarrass  _me_ , in front of my father?”

 

“Vince, whatever-“

 

The gun swung to point at Morse. “Oh no, there needs to be a lesson here. He needs to know to leave well enough alone.”

 

“If you think that threatening us will do anything other than-“

 

“I won’t just threaten then,” Vince said, and took a step towards them. Morse took a step back; his arm coming up in front of Joan like a barrier as she moved back beside him. “It’s time to send a clearer message again, time to break him. I hadn’t decided yet, which of you it was going to be, but perhaps it should be… both. That’s a nice clear message, isn’t it? And no one to tell tales.”

 

Morse angled himself a little in front of Joan, trying to tuck her behind him, but she was frozen and unmoving.

 

“I can understand how you feel about your father,” Morse tried desperately, “but this won’t help anything.”

 

“How could you possibly understand?” Vince sneered. “A rich, overeducated twerp like you? Know what it’s like to be a disappointment, to be shut out?”

 

“I-“

 

“You’re pathetic. You’ll go first.” He slowly gestured the muzzle of the gun down from Morse’s head to his centre. Morse couldn’t take his eyes off the glint of it, couldn’t stop remembering the last time a gun had been pointed at him. “And I won’t make it quick. A gut shot, maybe. Or a few – leave the rest of you a bloody mess with just your pretty face left for him to see. And then her,” and now his eyes flicked over Morse’s shoulder, to where Joan’s scared white face peaked out. “Oh, I could have all kinds of fun with her.”

 

The threat to Joan was enough to jolt Morse loose from memory. “He’ll kill you,” Morse said angrily, and Vince laughed, but then –

 

“Damned right I will,” Thursday said roughly from the doorway, his own gun trained on the back of Vince’s head, and Morse and Joan stared in stunned surprise. Vince didn’t move, his gun still firmly pointed at Morse, but his eyes canted frantically to the side as he tried to gauge the situation.

 

“I’ll shoot,” Kasper said, and thrust his arm forward a little, the gun closer, closer. The sight of it was sending Morse into a cold sweat, was making his hip ache with pain, and he was filled with terror for Joan.

 

“Why don’t you let her go, now,” Morse said, voice shaking. “You’ve got the two of us here, and we’re the ones you want. Joan, why don’t you-“

 

“Joan, why don’t you stay exactly where you are,” Vince said, voice silky, and Thursday took a step closer, two. “Oh, just try it,  _Fred_. Let’s see how quickly I can riddle him with bullets.”

 

“You’ll not have the chance,” Thursday said, his voice arctic, barely human. “You so much as twitch and I’ll splatter your brains all over the wall.”

 

“Fancy your chances, do you?”

 

“Against you, you little brat?”

 

And Vince started to turn.

 

And Morse pushed Joan down.

 

And Thursday roared.

 

And Morse started towards Vince.

 

And Vince’s gun went off.

 

And Thursday fired.

 

Morse, carried forward by his own momentum, tackled Vince and brought him down to the ground. The impact jolted him free of the numbness that had flooded over him, and seconds later Thursday was stamping the gun further out of Vince’s hand.

 

Time resumed its normal flow.

 

The sound of muted sobbing penetrated first, and Morse sluggishly raised his head to see Joan huddled sideways on the floor. His gaze flicked upwards, saw the bullet hole in the wall - right where she’d been standing. Flicked to the other side, saw Thursday standing above them like an avenging angel, pointing his gun straight at Vince.

 

“Morse,” he said grimly.

 

“I’m alright.” Morse extricated himself to stand hunched over and catch his breath.

 

“I called for backup. Should be here in a minute. Why don’t you go and wait by the door for them.”

 

Morse could hear sirens now, getting closer.

 

“Come on,” he said, turning to Joan and coaxing her up. “Why don’t you come outside with me, Joan? Get some fresh air.”

 

He hesitated as they passed Thursday, and wondered if Vince would make it through the next few minutes alive. Tried to find the words.

 

“I’ll see you in a minute,” he said, and then, “Don’t.”

 

Outside the sun was just starting to go down; the days were getting longer now. Joan immediately started to shiver, and Morse quickly pulled off his jumper and handed it to her. She stared at it blankly for a moment, and he motioned for her to put it on.

 

She bit her lip, clutching it to her chest, and he saw the first tears appear in her eyes. “Thank you,” she said, and her voice shook, and the tears fell.

 

“It’s only a jumper,” he said, but the joke fell flat and she started to shake as she cried.

 

He pulled her in, wrapping his arms around her and feeling the shivering warmth of her, and took in great lungfulls of air and felt  _alive_. He was alive.

 

Half a minute later police cars were screeching to a halt in the middle of the road and officers stormed up the pavement. Morse directed them inside with an arm cast wildly towards the door, then turned his attention back to Joan.

 

“Oh _God_ , Endeavour,” she cried against his chest, tears soaking through his shirt, and he held on and found he couldn’t say anything – couldn’t say ‘it will be alright,’ or ‘we got him,’ or ‘there’s nothing to be afraid of.’

 

A minute later they dragged Vince Kasper out between two officers, bright red streaking down his sleeve where Thursday had shot to disarm. Kasper didn’t look at Morse as he was led past, didn’t look at Joan; just stared ahead stony faced. Morse tucked Joan’s head under his chin so that she didn’t have to see.

 

Thursday followed a minute behind, just in time to see Kasper forced into the police car. His face – Morse had never seen his face like that, not ever. As though the Thursday he knew had vacated the premises, and this was some hollow, battle-forged replacement.

 

Morse looked down at the top of Joan’s dark brown head, heard her quiet sniffles, and came to a quick decision.

 

“Strange,” he called, because he’d seen the man standing off to one side. “Strange!”

 

Strange looked over, came at a quick trot. “Morse. You alright, matey? We didn’t know what was happening – we just got a call from Thursday saying… But he didn’t get either of you?”

 

“No,” Morse said. “No, we’re fine. But Miss Thursday has had a terrible shock, and should be with her mother. Mrs Thursday – I, uh, I think she’s visiting her sister. Thursday can give you the address. Could you take Miss Thursday there? Now?”

 

Strange, who had been following every word intently, nodded briskly at this. “Of course,” he said. “Here, lass, why don’t you come and sit in the car for a minute, and then we’ll be off?”

 

Joan raised her head at last; looked at Strange like he was speaking a foreign language.

 

“You should go and be with your mother,” Morse murmured. “She’ll be worried.”

 

This prompted a numb nod and a step back. Strange raised a hand to cup her elbow, to gently steer her away, and Morse watched her progress until they got to one of the cars before he turned to look at Thursday again.

 

Thursday, whose eyes were fixed – unblinking - on Morse.

 

Strange passed Morse by again, talked to Thursday, and Thursday never looked away. He must have told Strange the address, and Morse caught Strange on the way back to say ‘thank you’ and ‘good job’ and ‘I’m glad you were here’ the way Win would have wanted him to.

 

And then they were gone, all of them, and it was just Thursday standing frozen in the doorway and Morse looking back at him from the path.

 

He had no idea how long they stayed like that, locked in an unmoving plateau, before Thursday turned without a word and went back inside. The sudden loss of contact made Morse feel almost adrift, and he glanced around for a moment, seeing everything surprisingly normal. Nothing out of the ordinary, no danger here.

 

He followed Thursday in, and locked the door behind him. The hallway was empty, the kitchen at the end of it too. Following his instincts, Morse went back to where they had all been standing ten minutes before. There Thursday was, standing in the middle of the living room, his back to the door.

 

Beyond him the hole in the wall glared like a wound, plaster already crumbling away around the edges, and the sound of the gunshots rang loudly again in Morse’s ears.

 

“What were you thinking, going for him like that?” Thursday asked harshly, turning on his heel, and his face was so open that Morse could see straight through the anger to the ashen fear underneath.

 

“It’s fine,” Morse said, a reassurance which was completely lost on Thursday. “I’m fine.”

 

“If there was ever a time when things weren’t fine, Morse, it’d be right after that bastard came to my home and tried to-“

 

“He didn’t,” Morse cut in. “We stopped him.”

 

Thursday let out a long, hard breath. Closed his eyes. Almost visibly counted to ten. “We stopped him,” he repeated, but the edge hadn’t gone from his voice.

 

Morse reached out a hand which hadn’t quite stopped shaking from adrenaline, and placed it on Thursday’s shoulder. His fingers slid upwards of their own volition, fingering a collar with slightly too much starch in it, tucking just underneath to feel the hammering of Thursday’s pulse.

 

They stood locked in that pose for several seconds, and then Thursday said, without opening his eyes, “I was bloody terrified.”

 

“I know,” Morse said. He’d been acting on instinct, but the thrum of fear for Joan and Thursday, for  _himself_ , had been a constant undercurrent. There had been a moment, after the first gun shot, when he’d felt completely blinded, out of control, and had only hit Kasper because he’d already been lunging forward.

 

“No,” Thursday muttered, and now his eyes opened, and the expression in them seemed to accuse Morse of something. “No, you don’t understand. I was terrified for  _you_.”

 

Morse hesitated, dragged up a half smile from somewhere. “Part of the job, I suppose. Not like you’re much better with getting yourself into-“

 

“I  _only_  thought about you,” Thursday snapped. “I forgot Joan was even there; I could have gotten her killed!”

 

Silence, in the wake of the announcement, as Morse’s mouth went dry and his words deserted him.

 

“Nothing else mattered.  _Nothing_. All I could see was you; all I could think of was you on the ground, covered in blood.”

 

Thursday stepped forward now, and his hands came up to push Morse in the chest. A testing shove first, and then a harder one, and Morse stumbled backwards under the onslaught and said, “What are you-?”

 

“How could I forget her?” Thursday roared, and flecks of spittle landed on Morse’s face. “How could I not care that my own daughter was-“

 

He pushed again, and Morse backed up against the wall with a dull thud and a stifled inhalation of pain. Thursday stopped, eyes wild, and his hand came up to tangle in the back of Morse’s hair. He tightened his grip on the strands so that his knuckles pressed hard against Morse’s skull, and Morse had to arch his neck back to relieve the pressure.

 

“ _You_ ,” Thursday breathed, and his face was only inches from Morse, less than inches, was so close now that Morse could feel the heat of his skin. He buried his face in Morse’s neck, inhaling deep as though trying to pull Morse in with the air around him.

 

Morse’s hands hovered uselessly in the air for a moment, then he brought them to Thursday’s shoulders and gripped hard.

 

“I’m right here,” he said. “I’m still here. I’m alright, and so is Joan.”

 

Thursday pressed his whole body a little closer, practically plastering Morse to the wall. Shifting with a slight grimace, Morse tried to ease the pressure on his hip, but Thursday just crowded close again.

 

“I can’t let you go,” Thursday mumbled against his neck, sounding half-mad.

 

Morse subsided, trying to lean against the wall to take the weight off instead. “I’m alright,” he repeated. “I’m right here.”

 

This seemed to trigger something - some switch of responses - because a moment later came a fierce press of lips against the skin right under his jaw, and then the sharp sting of teeth. His breath hitched, and one of his hands moved to Thursday’s head – to press him closer or pull him away, Morse wasn’t sure.

 

“Morse,” Thursday said, and then a low, almost pained moan.

 

Morse stared across at the join of the ceiling on the other side of the room, his head still tilted unnaturally backwards in Thursday’s grip. “I’m here.”

 

The pressure in his hair eased, just a bit, and he tipped his head down to see Thursday’s dark eyes drawing back to look him over. The intensity of the stare would have scared him, but this was _Thursday_. Thursday, who had seen him at his worst, who had somehow become _safety_ and _home_ and _love_ , and so Morse nudged his nose forward gently against Thursday’s.

 

“Morse,” Thursday whispered against his lips, and then Morse kissed him.

 

Thursday kissed back like a man possessed; pinning Morse up against the wall with ruthless efficiency. Morse just pulled him in closer, closer, until Thursday’s thigh shifting against him put pressure on the wound and he drew back with a muted hiss.

 

“What – _fuck_ ,” Thursday muttered, and his forehead dropped to Morse’s shoulder for a moment, his panting breaths filling the space between them. “Fuck,” he said. “ _Morse_.”

 

And Morse waited for the inevitable apology, for the ‘ _Did I hurt you, lad?_ ’ For the return of rationality and reason.

 

It didn’t arrive.

 

Instead Thursday grasped his arm, hard, and towed him along in his wake as he crossed the room; Morse almost tripping over his own feet in an effort not to fall.

 

“Here,” Thursday muttered, scooping up a cushion from the couch, and “Here,” as he placed it over the edge of the desk. Morse was unceremoniously pulled in front of Thursday, and then a hand between his shoulder blades pushed him down, bending him almost double over the desk.

 

Morse flushed crimson from the top of his head to the tip of his toes.

 

“Alright?” Thursday asked gruffly.

 

It wasn’t comfortable, not really, but as long as Morse leaned to one side there wasn’t too much pressure on the wound.

 

“Yes,” he said weakly, brain still three steps behind and struggling to catch up.

 

The hand on his back eased away, and he stood back upright cautiously, unable to predict Thursday’s behaviour. Thursday stepped into him, a solid absolute as his arms encircled Morse and pulled him back against him.

 

“I could have lost you,” he breathed against Morse’s ear, and both the sensation and the tone made Morse shiver.

 

Morse’s hands came to rest over the top of Thursday’s where they bracketed his waist – careful on the right, now, Morse noticed. He knew these fingers so well and yet not well enough; felt familiar with every line and bump and was perpetually surprised by the wonder of them every time he touched.

 

“I’m glad you were here,” Morse allowed himself to say, allowed the truth of it to echo in his voice. He had no idea how things would have ended otherwise – if he could have talked Vince down. If he could have gotten Joan out safely. Maybe he could have handled it, but it certainly hadn’t felt like it.

 

“Are you now?” Thursday said, and there was still something dark and fey in his tone. “Even though you’re _fine_.” He punctuated the last word with a brief press of his erection against Morse, and his hands dropped to Morse’s belt.

 

Morse’s hands dropped to the table top in front of him, palms splaying flat against the wood. “I can be fine and still want you here,” he rasped.

 

Sharp, efficient movements pulled his belt loose and slipped it free of the buckle. Fingers sought out the buttons of his trousers without their usual care, tugging harshly and punctuated by bitten off curses when they proved stubborn.

 

As large hands took a firm grasp of the top of his trousers on either side, Morse covered the one on the right for a moment and gave it a quick squeeze. The grip slackened, and then more carefully lifted the material away from his skin on that side as Thursday drew it down, keeping it away from his wound and then whipping the fabric down when it reached his thighs. His pants followed the same route, and Morse would have felt ridiculous if it hadn’t been for the immediate rough warmth of Thursday’s woollen trousers pressing against him, rubbing against the bare skin of his arse.

 

“I’ve been thinking of you like this,” Thursday said roughly in his ear. “Every minute of every day since we got back from leave. Bloody months ago. How the hell I’ve managed to do my job is beyond me.”

 

“Thought about the desk in your office,” Morse gasped, distracted by Thursday’s hand smoothing a path across his hip, teasing at the groove of his thigh.

 

Thursday bit the tip of his ear, and Morse bucked backwards involuntarily.

 

“I thought about more than just the desk, lad,” Thursday said, low and dangerous, and then hands were urging Morse down again, pressing him closer to the cold wood and tugging his hips back a little as they rested on the cushion. There was the slightest pause, and then Thursday’s thumb rubbed measuringly an inch or two away from his wound. “Alright?” he asked quietly, and Morse kept his head down and nodded.

 

Sure fingers parted his buttocks; spread him wide and held him that way despite the twitching of his muscles.

 

“Christ,” Thursday said. “It’s been so long.”

 

And it had been, Morse supposed, since they done more than draw cocks out of trousers for a quick round. There had been that one time at his new flat, but otherwise Thursday’s naked body was no more than a distant memory.

 

His ears traced the movement of Thursday going slowly to his knees, his breath hitching with his own frenzied anticipation until…

 

_There_.

 

A muffled half-sob emerged from his mouth before he could bite it off, and the tip of Thursday’s tongue traced down from his tailbone until he was placing open mouthed kisses against Morse in a way that made him groan in frustration and pleasure. Thursday’s thumbs were pressing hard into Morse’s buttocks, keeping him open for Thursday to lick and curl his tongue and press the breadth of it against Morse’s arsehole again and again and again.

 

“Oh God,” Morse choked out weakly, and scrambled again for a better hold on the surface of the table.

 

Thursday pulled back, apparently viewing his work, and puffed a light, cool breath against Morse’s heated flesh in a way that nearly made him cry out all over again.

 

“How have I been living without you?” Thursday asked, voice deep and contemplative. “Without you in my bed, on my cock, in my arms?”

 

“I don’t-“

 

“I almost went mad when you left.” Deft fingers reached between Morse’s legs, brushed fondly over his balls and drew his stiff prick down and back. “I’d thought it was hard before – but not having you here at all… Christ, I needed you here.”

 

One hand circled his cock, and then Morse felt the slick torment of Thursday thumbing the head of it, each calloused ridge of his thumb amplified as it ran over the slit. He tossed his head and tried to stop the small noises in the back of his throat from spilling out. “ _Sir_ ,” he gasped unthinkingly, and only realised what he’d said at Thursday’s low chuckle a moment later.

 

“Thought I’d cured you of that, at home.”

 

Then Thursday’s other hand cupping his arse; Thursday’s tongue sealed to him again as though if he swirled it in just the right way he could make Morse fall apart.

 

“Please,” Morse mumbled as his cock jerked helplessly in Thursday’s hand, as Thursday kept the pressure just too light and Morse wanted to thrust into it but couldn’t; couldn’t move enough. “ _Please_.”

 

“Please, what?” Thursday pressed his thumb hard against Morse’s cock, waited to hear him keen. “Want me to fill that arse of yours?”

 

He let go of Morse’s cock, and before Morse had breath to complain he felt the rough pad of Thursday’s thumb tease at his arsehole, once, twice, and then press in. Just the tip of the thumb, light pressure against the muscle as Thursday testingly pulled and twisted a little - and then in to the hilt, the ball of Thursday’s thumb pushed right up against his hole, and it felt so good, so good to have something inside him, he hadn’t had Thursday inside him for months and this felt – “Oh God, _please_ ,” he said brokenly.

 

“You’ve no idea what it does to me, hearing you beg,” Thursday murmured, voice gravelly, and bit his arse cheek. And then he pulled up and away, thumb abruptly withdrawn and leaving Morse clenching down unhappily over nothing with a soft noise of discontent.

 

The sound of a buckle hastily unfastened, the rustle of trousers dropping. The press, glorious and so long awaited, of the length of his cock down the crack of Morse’s arse. Of the head of it against Morse’s hole.

 

“Fuck,” Thursday breathed, as he pressed and pressed, and the pressure was suddenly _too much_. Morse abruptly tried to pull forwards and away at the sensation but then the head breached him all at once and he froze and went still.

 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Thursday said again, and Morse could hear the overwhelming pleasure in his voice but could barely think beyond _God that hurts_ and the stretched feeling of his own discomfort.

 

Thursday must have registered Morse’s sudden stillness immediately, because he’d stopped moving as well. His hand came down to rest on Morse’s back after a moment and he said, “Alright, alright – you’re right, just wait a minute,” and held Morse steady as he withdrew again more gradually.

 

Morse breathed through it, and leant into the hand that came to run up the side of his neck and cup the back of his head. 

 

“Let me just-“ Thursday muttered, and then there was nothing but empty air and silence.

 

“Have you ever tried walking with your trousers round your ankles?” Thursday asked as he came back in an endless minute later, voice acerbic and warm and _Thursday -_ as though his cock hadn’t just been halfway up Morse’s arse - and Morse relaxed and leaned into his elbows on the table. “Had to stop halfway and take them off. Looked like a right prat. Here, now.”

 

With no further warning there was _cold_ running down his arse, and Morse made an entirely undignified noise and jerked half upright on the desk.

 

Thursday, the bastard, laughed at him. “Settle down now.”

 

The easy press of two fingers against his arsehole, a gentle tease, and then a slick slide inside and _oh God too much too big tensing trying not to tense but_ – “Come on, lad, relax” _– relax relax relax they’re Thursday’s fingers you love his fingers oh God they’re moving his fingers moving inside you_ – “That’s it. Perfect; you feel perfect” – _and oh the twist of them and too much but good but oh no don’t pull them out that feels worse leave them in and_ –

 

“Now,” Thursday murmured, “Let’s try that again, shall we?”

 

His cock slid in easily this time, and more slowly; a carefully oiled piece sliding home into its socket. Morse couldn’t quite supress the whimper, the slight toss of his head, and Thursday’s hand stroked down over his ribs and then went to play with his arse again.

 

“The way that looks; you wrapped around me like this.” He pulled back a little, eased back in. His fingers came to tease at the skin stretched taut around his cock, and Morse laid his head down on his hands and helplessly pushed his hips back into the touch. “I can’t explain it. I can feel the echo of it, somehow, feel how _right_ it is.”

 

He pulled out almost all the way, slammed back in, and Morse pictured in his mind what it must look like; his cock sliding so smooth and long into the tight muscle of Morse’s arse. It was still uncomfortable – a sharp ache which grew acute when Thursday pushed _in in in_ – and then it _wasn’t_ , then it was too many other things layered on top for that to even register, because it felt so good, beyond good, like Morse needed this to go on forever and for Thursday never to stop and the slapping of Thursday’s skin against him was in rhythm with the desperate hitching of his breath and he wanted to rut his cock against the cushion but he didn’t have enough leverage and didn’t want to change the angle because, Christ, Thursday was good at this, and -

 

“Jesus, Morse, _Jesus_.”

 

Thursday leaned down low on top of him and hooked an arm under his right shoulder, his other hand clamped tight around Morse’s left hip, and sped his pace until nothing but an endless broken moan was coming from Morse’s mouth at the incessant fast strokes inside him that were going to go on forever and never stop and it was _wonderful_ and he needed to come _he needed to come he needed to_ - 

 

“Fuck,” Thursday hissed, and slammed in as deeply as he could, body held tense and still for an endlessly long moment before Morse realised he was coming; could feel it inside him.

 

Morse’s own body stayed taut like a wire, caught right on the edge of want and need and desperation, feeling pleasure at Thursday’s pleasure and needing to see him and feeling the sweat drip from Thursday’s forehead onto his back and _needing to come please now_.

 

“Fuck,” Thursday murmured again a few seconds later, voice sounding almost drugged. He took a slow, deep breath and lazily pressed his hips forward, rocking Morse further into the cushion and the desk. He dipped his head, and pressed slow kisses to Morse’s shoulder; a small bite which wouldn’t leave a mark.

 

He sighed as he leaned back, as he stroked a hand lovingly down Morse’s spine and said, “Did you…?” and started to pull out.

 

Morse’s desperate moan was answer enough, and Thursday paused in his motion.

 

“No?” He pressed back in, every motion languid and deliberate, and listened to Morse’s breathing hitch and stutter. For a minute he rocked in and out a little; unhurried, languorous. As though Morse’s body was an excellent meal he’d savoured, and he was licking the plate to drag out every last fragment of pleasure from it.

 

It wasn’t enough; Morse shifted his face to the side, rubbing his forehead urgently against his arm where it rested on the desk as though somehow that contact could give him relief. Thursday’s hands caressed their way down his back again and again, and he began a slow slide out which made Morse almost sob in loss.

 

“Alright now, lad, alright. I’ll take care of you. Hush, now.”

 

His hips were pulled back a bit, freeing his cock. Fingers slid quick and effortless into his arse; stroking into him as though he’d been made for this, as though they did this every day.

 

“How many fingers do you think that is, Endeavour?” Thursday asked roughly, and Morse couldn’t answer for a moment, lost in himself.

 

“Two,” he said eventually, and had to lick his lips because they were so dry they almost cracked when he spoke.

 

Thursday’s fingertips pressed in cleverly, ran over his prostate and then came back to bump and nudge against it.

 

“That’s three.”

 

And then the fingers were gone, and Thursday blew cool air over his arsehole and Morse yelped and clenched the muscle. His cock was tugged gently between his legs and Thursday’s mouth – oh God Thursday’s mouth on him – and then he was released and fingers pressed back in and he half shouted in pleasure as they _rubbed and rubbed and rubbed_.

 

“How many fingers, Endeavour?”

 

“Three,” Morse yelped. “Three. Oh God, oh God I need to-“

 

“It’s four. Four fingers.” He flattened them out as if to demonstrate, and Morse felt the span of Thursday’s hand, the girth of them.

 

“ _Oh God, oh God, oh God_ ,” he whispered, voice raw and ragged.

 

“Do you like that?” Thursday said, and his fingers closed together again to _push in and press and seek and find and_ – “You like my fingers in you? Look at you all spread out for me, you’d do anything I asked. I could keep you like this for hours, until I was ready to fuck you again – handcuff you here and put one of your records on and finger you open until you screamed for me. Is that what you want, Endeavour? Is that what you need? Is that what will-“ and he punctuated the sentence with a long, hard press against Morse’s prostate “-keep you here with me?”

 

Morse stared at the wall with glazed eyes, panting, every ounce of his focus on the feel of Thursday’s fingers splaying him open, on the feel of his swollen cock almost burning with the need for contact.

 

“Christ,” Thursday said, “I want to turn you over. Suck on that sweet prick of yours while my fingers are wrapped up in your tight little arse. It’s like sliding my hand into a warm, slick glove. Like –“ and he reached down and took Morse’s cock in a firm grip “-everything you are is completely open to me, like here you’re finally honest, finally all mine. You can’t hide from me here; you can’t do anything except what I want. And _, Endeavour_ ,” his voice going so low and intimate that Morse had to close his eyes, had to bite his lip, “I want you to come.”

 

Two, three seconds of pressure, of the words echoing in Morse’s ears, at the shock of them and then…

 

Morse’s vision almost blacked out, his mouth hanging open on a soundless cry, his hips jerking and his arse _so full so full and he was coming and coming and Jesus fuck Jesus oh God_ and then he realised he was saying that aloud and he tried to close his mouth but he couldn’t stop gasping because it was so good and oh _FUCK_.

 

Fuck.

 

He came back to something resembling his senses with a pathetic sounding moan as Thursday very gently slid his fingers out of Morse’s arse. “Shh, alright, just wait a moment, just stay here.” Thursday moved away again in an echo of earlier, and Morse’s legs felt weak and his hip was suddenly _on fire,_ and he slid down and back to the floor in a tangle of limbs.

 

His breath sounded loud in his own ears, his pulse still throbbing in a rapid tempo and he felt almost as though he were in shock, as though -

 

“Morse?”

 

He looked up, slowly, his eyes sweeping in a dazed arc which skimmed past Thursday’s looming form rather than connecting with him; ended up staring into the middle distance while his thoughts drifted hazily.

 

“Morse? Is it your hip? What’s wrong, lad?”

 

Hands tugged his legs straight, drifted delicately over his hip, carefully steered his face to look straight ahead.

 

“Come here,” Thursday said a little roughly. Thursday was suddenly on the same level as him, and Morse was being pulled to a rough chest that was warm and wonderful.

 

His fingers couldn’t stop compulsively playing with the cuffs of his own shirt.

 

“Mmm,” he said after a minute.

 

Thursday sighed against the side of his head. “I just went to get a cloth, lad – I left you in a bit of a state. I should have waited a moment though.” He nosed into Morse’s hair. “You alright now?”

 

“Hmm,” Morse hummed approvingly.

 

“Well, my bones aren’t. It’s possible that my knees aren’t speaking to me anymore. Come on then, let’s get you up.”

 

They managed to get to their feet between them, a shaky awareness of reality descending on Morse with a chill. Sudden consciousness of being completely bare-arsed tinged his cheeks with red, and he cast around for his trousers.

 

“Never mind that,” Thursday said on seeing the direction of his gaze. “Need a shower, you do, and I wouldn’t mind one either. Go on with you – I’ll just pick these up.”

 

He bent with a groan to pick up their various discarded bits of clothing, and Morse turned numbly in the direction of the door. God, he’d just – and they’d…

 

A small, sly smile spread over his face, and he took two quick steps to brush long fingers over Thursday’s bare bum before he swiftly headed for the door to the outraged “Oi!” behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I invented a desk in the living room as a necessary plot device for the sex. It shall now disappear again.
> 
> And we're on the home stretch! The next chapter will be the last one :)


	14. Chapter 14

It was as though Win knew that they might have needed some time, because she didn’t ring for another hour or so.

 

Thursday had settled, back in his usual humour - though he wasn’t letting Morse out of his sight. Every couple of minutes he kept reaching out to touch Morse as though to confirm he was real.

 

“Hello?” Thursday said when he picked up the phone. “How’s Joan? Yes I – no, no, I – yes, of course. He’s fine. Why don’t you come round – we want to see you both.” Morse nodded at him. “See you in half an hour then, love.

 

“They’re coming round in half an hour,” he added to Morse as he hung up, as though Morse hadn’t heard it all for himself.

 

Morse half-smiled an acknowledgement, and in two steps Thursday was across to him and holding him, breathing him in. In the past hour Morse had decided that the best way to deal with this behaviour was to half humour it and half ignore it, so he brushed his lips against Thursday’s jaw and gently pulled away to wander through to the living room.

 

He was considering the wall when Thursday came in behind him, fitting himself against Morse’s back.

 

“We should cover that somehow,” Morse said thoughtfully. Thursday just made a humming noise and slid his arms around Morse’s waist. “It’s better if they don’t see it.”

 

“Hmm,” Thursday said again, and tucked his head over Morse’s shoulder to contemplate the wall too.

 

“We could move a picture?” Morse suggested uncertainly.

 

“Bit of an odd height.”

 

But moving the television over would take too much time – and there was to be no heavy lifting for Morse anyway, so a picture it was.

 

“We could just move one from the hall,” Thursday muttered. “But there was one standing around in your old room, wasn’t there? I’ll just get the hammer and nails.”

 

Morse went up to Win’s old sewing room and found the one Thursday had mentioned – unhung and leaning facing the wall. He could see why it had been stashed here – an uninspired watercolour field - but it would do.

 

“There,” Thursday said as they straightened it in its new position. “What do you think?”

 

“It’s fine,” said Morse. He gazed around the rest of the room. “Now we need a rug.”

 

\-------------------

 

“You’ve made changes,” Win said in surprise. It hadn’t taken her a second to notice once they came in to the living room. Previously, they’d lingered in the hall; Thursday clinging to Joan for long minutes while Morse and Win smiled at each other and made conversation.

 

“Oh, yes.” Morse shifted awkwardly, but Joan perked up a little and looked around in confusion.

 

“It wasn’t like this earlier,” she said, bewildered. “Isn’t that the mat from the bathroom?”

 

Win, quicker on the uptake, said, “Well, it looks… interesting. We can get a nicer rug to put there, if scrubbing doesn’t work.”

 

“Scrubbing?” Joan blinked.

 

“And at least I’ll be able to tell Valerie that we’ve hung her picture in pride of place – she’s been after me for ages about it.”

 

“What-“ Joan looked around the room again. Something clicked, and she quickly moved to sit down on the couch. “Oh,” she said quietly.

 

“Sorry, love,” Thursday said unhappily. “We just didn’t want you to have to…”

 

“It makes perfect sense,” said Win. “Shall I make us all some tea?”

 

Morse and Thursday moved to bookend Joan while she sat and stared down at her hands, and after a moment she said, “Sorry, that was stupid of me.”

 

“Not at all, sweetheart. It would have made my heart glad if you’d not realised it at all.”

 

She nodded, slowly, lost in some other world, and then her gaze snapped back to her dad. “You don’t have to hide things from me,” she said, a little terse. “I’m not a child anymore.”

 

Thursday opened his mouth, but Morse got there first. “There are still some things that you shouldn’t  _have_  to see. Trust me, I’d rather not.”

 

“Is it – is it blood, on the carpet?”

 

“Yes,” Thursday said.

 

“You shot him?”

 

Morse exchanged a glance with Thursday.

 

“Yes,” Thursday said. “In the arm.”

 

“I don’t remember,” she murmured.

 

“Here we are,” Win said as she came back in. “Nothing a good cup of tea can’t fix,” she said to Morse as he started to get up to help her. “No, you sit down, I’ll pass them to you.”

 

When everyone was settled with a cup, she fixed Morse with a look. “Now then,” she said, and he began to tell her what had happened. Thursday turned to listen intently – and of course he hadn’t been there, to start with, and they hadn’t talked about it since. Joan nodded along, although there were some bits he thought she didn’t remember very well, and Morse didn’t go into too much detail on the last frantic moments.

 

“Endeavour pushed me down,” Joan said, hushed. “I couldn’t move. I couldn’t think, and he pushed me down and I thought that man was going to kill him and-“

 

“Here now,” Win said, though her eyes were anxious. “Look at him; right as rain. Both of you.”

 

Thursday was looking a bit strained again, so Morse added, “I’m alright, Joan, really. I’d never have let him hurt you.”

 

Later in the corridor as she got ready to leave – despite being urged to stay – Win turned and clutched Morse’s hand tightly.

 

“You saved her,” she said wonderingly. “You saved my little girl.”

 

“Ah.” Morse gave an awkward half shrug, because it had been instinct, it had been his job, and of course he would protect Joan.

 

“And don’t you say it was nothing.” Win sniffed a little, checked over his shoulder to see Thursday still talking to Joan behind him. “I’ll never forget it, Endeavour. You’re such a precious boy.”

 

She pulled him down to kiss his forehead, and a warm glow spread through his heart.

 

\--------------------------

 

Thursday’s need to touch and keep Morse in sight didn’t seem to diminish, which was a problem the following day.

 

“I might have to call in,” Thursday said, as they sat downstairs early in the morning – neither of them having slept well. His fingers were latched onto Morse’s wrist, caressing occasionally but mainly keeping track of his pulse. “This is ridiculous.”

 

There was irritation in Thursday’s voice, mainly directed at himself. Morse’s lack of reply seemed to irk him further.

 

“Nothing to say?” And then sighed, aware of his changeable temper. “Christ, this is just like it was at the beginning.”

 

Morse looked up from yesterday’s newspaper at that; pushed his finished plate further to the side and asked, “What do you mean?”

 

“Well, you know,” Thursday grumbled. “Touching you all the time.”

 

“It wasn’t this bad, then.”

 

“It bloody well felt like it. Especially after we got back from Cornwall the first time.”

 

“But you…” Morse trailed off, thinking back. Thursday had been very hands on with him that last week, after he’d been sick at DeBryn’s. They’d gone back to Cornwall after all, in the end. Barely moved from the bed for at least two days, obsessively wrapped up in each other. But after they’d come back to Oxford - after they were living together with everybody at home, and in public at the station - it had only been brief stealthy touches and quick grasping ones when they had a moment alone. None of the desperate inability to leave him alone that Thursday was exhibiting now.

 

“It’s the same feeling. Just, stronger somehow. Then I could somehow let go, eventually. Now I just – I just need…”

 

Morse contemplated Thursday’s fingers against his skin. “Is it – you thought…” He paused to organise his thoughts. Tilted his head. “You thought he was going to shoot me?”

 

He listened to Thursday’s breathing. One breath, two. Five. Ten.

 

“When I heard the shot…” Thursday swallowed, pressed his lips together. “I don’t… I would have killed him. I thought you were…” His thumb pressed a little harder against the vein in Morse’s wrist.

 

A minute later he started again, more slowly. “Since this has started you’ve been stabbed and shot and threatened, and you’ve  _left_.” He stopped, and Morse heard him swallow. “I’ve had your blood all over my hands.” Stopped again. “I couldn’t get it out. I came back with Sam and you and Win were gone - and I still had your blood under my bloody fingernails.”

 

Morse stirred. “I’m sorry,” he said.

 

“I don’t want you to be sorry! I feel like half the time I’ve known you I’ve been losing my mind for fear of losing you. I’m not – I can’t quite think straight at the moment. I know how I’m acting isn’t – isn’t sensible, but I’m – I just can’t…”

 

Morse went with instinct; twisted until his palm slid against Thursday’s and gripped his hand tightly. They sat there in silence for a little while, the pained creases on Thursday’s face gradually evening out.  

 

“Yesterday was just a bad day,” Morse offered eventually. “A scare.”

 

“Hmm, that’s as maybe.” Fingertips glided up his wrist, explored under the unbuttoned cuff of his sleeve. “Are  _you_ alright, lad?”

 

Morse blinked, surprised. “Yes, of course.”

 

Thursday nodded, unconvinced. “There was that car backfired outside, this morning.”

 

It had sounded like a gunshot. Morse had flinched, frozen. Had lost all thoughts but  _fearfearfear_  and startled again when Thursday had taken his arm, had said quiet words until Morse blinked the haze away and could carry on as though nothing had happened.

 

“I’m fine,” he said now. His voice slightly too high, tone slightly too defensive.

 

Rain fell, outside the net curtains. The sky was gradually starting to lighten with the dawn.

 

“And yesterday, when I hammered in the nail.”

 

The first loud bang had taken him by surprise. He’d hoped Thursday hadn’t noticed.

 

“Morse,” Thursday started, then fell silent. Resumed, “You were shot a couple of weeks ago; you’ve barely started to heal. And yesterday someone pointed a gun at you, shot at you.”

 

Morse stared fixedly out of the window, mouth a tight line.

 

“There’s no shame in it, lad – having a reaction to that. I knew blokes in the war who-“

 

And Morse pulled his hand from Thursday’s grip, crossed his hands over his chest and fought not to let the fire in his chest spill out of his lips.

 

“There’s no shame in it,” Thursday said again. “I’m just worried about you.”

 

“We’ve both got reasons to worry then,” Morse said, terse.

 

A long sigh, and a glance out of the corner of his eye showed Thursday wearily rubbing at his temples.

 

“Sorry,” Morse said stiffly after a minute.

 

“No, no, I didn’t mean to poke at you, lad. I’m just – well, you know I’m here.”

 

Morse couldn’t look at him, but eventually said, “I know.”

 

\---------------

 

Joan came downstairs ten minutes later, sleep-muzzy and blinking in surprise to find them up so early. Morse made her a cup of tea. He watched as her sleepiness fell away and was replaced by awareness, memory – as her eyes grew big and wary and fractured.

 

She went to work.

 

Thursday called in sick. At least it was a Friday, Morse reasoned, so hopefully they’d have a chance to get this sorted over the weekend.

 

After he’d made the call Thursday stood in the hallway in his shirtsleeves, looking lost. Morse suspected he felt like he was cheating; taking the day for no reason. But unless Morse went in with him, it certainly seemed like he was going nowhere today. He swung around after a moment, a compass seeking its north, and the tightness around his eyes eased as he found Morse.

 

Morse briefly imagined what it would be like to have Thursday hovering around him all day the way he had been last night.

 

Something would need to be done.

 

“My hip’s hurting,” Morse said blandly. “I might go back to bed.”

 

Thursday nodded an automatic acknowledgement. Then his eyes sharpened, and the corner of his mouth twitched.

 

“Scheming doesn’t suit you, Morse.”

 

Morse shrugged – it wasn’t untrue that his hip hurt. Admittedly no more than usual, and he certainly wouldn’t have normally gone back to bed with it.

 

“Come on, then.”

 

Thursday trailed him upstairs and stood looking lost in the bedroom instead; obligingly raising his arms as Morse rolled his shirt off his shoulders and tugged his vest off his head. Morse took a moment to smooth his hands down Thursday’s chest, to feel the familiar friction of skin on skin and the rightness that sung through his body at the prolonged touch.

 

“Enjoying yourself?”

 

He looked up at Thursday’s dry tone, and realised he had no idea how long he’d been standing there, running his hands back and forth, letting them rest over the slope of Thursday’s chest.

 

“Sorry,” he said unthinkingly, and dropped his hands by his sides.

 

Thursday looked at him with an expression of transparent affection that made warmth rise in his cheeks. “What am I going to do with you?”

 

“Well, I have a few suggestions,” Morse said bluntly.

 

Thursday’s eyes gleamed, and his fingers started to unbutton Morse’s shirt. “Oh yes? I thought your hip was hurting?”

 

\---------------

 

DeBryn came round for supper the following day. 

 

“Hullo.” Morse met him at the door.

 

“Morse. How are you feeling?”

 

Morse ushered him inside, evaded the question. “Oh, but I don’t know if you’ve met Joan? Joan, this is Max DeBryn.”

 

She’d been poking just her head out of the kitchen, but now she came to greet them, wiping her hands on a tea towel. “Nice to meet you Dr DeBryn,” she said smartly.

 

“Please, call me Max,” he said, all charm, and then raised an eyebrow at Morse. “That goes for you too, of course.”  
  
Joan snorted. “Please. He still won’t call Dad by name – you’re fighting a losing battle there.”

 

DeBryn’s eyes stayed on Morse inquisitively as she headed back down the corridor.

 

“I’ll, uh, take you through to the living room, then I’ll need to give her a hand – tonight’s a bit of a combined effort.”

 

“I’m sure it will be lovely.”

 

DeBryn’s hat and coat were handed over, and Morse led him through to where Thursday was sitting.

 

“Good evening.”

 

“Evening, Max. Sit yourself down. What can I get you to drink?”

 

After dinner Joan left them to it and headed to her room, and the three of them sat with drinks in hand; Thursday and DeBryn both going through the ritual of lighting up their pipes.

 

“I didn’t like to ask with the young lady still here, but…”

 

Thursday grunted, and tapped the bowl of his pipe against his knee. “Little bastard won’t be coming out anytime soon. Not after attempted murder of a cop; a cop’s family. Not to mention all the felonies he racked up during his escape.”

 

“And how are you both doing? And Joan?”

 

It was Morse who answered. “Joan’s been a bit knocked by it – says she doesn’t really feel safe after someone came into her own home.” Thursday’s head swivelled at that, and Morse realised she must not have said anything to him. “At least she doesn’t seem to remember most of it.”

 

“Mmm, not surprising, I suppose. The mind works in strange ways.”

 

The silence that filled the room was slightly strained, as both Morse and Thursday avoided answering about themselves.

 

“Well,” DeBryn said, “I’m glad you’re all alright. I was shocked to hear about it – it seems beyond reasonable probability that so many incidents could happen to you in so short a time.”

 

“Doesn’t it,” Thursday said dryly. Morse frowned at him.

 

Obviously detecting the charge in the atmosphere, DeBryn lowered his pipe. “I meant no offence,” he said carefully. “I merely meant with the shooting so recently you were unlucky to-“

 

“Oh yes, let’s talk about the shooting.” Thursday’s eyes bored into Morse’s. “No? Not even the way-“

 

“I’m sorry,” Morse said tersely “Which of us can’t go five minutes without-?” He cut the sentence short, regretting the hasty ill-formed words even as they were half spoken.

 

“Clearly I have misstepped,” DeBryn said slowly.

 

Morse sighed. “No, it’s nothing you’ve done.”

 

“Morse has been jumpier than a barn cat since he got shot, but he won’t admit it,” growled Thursday. “It’s as clear a case of shell shock as I’ve ever seen. Well,” he flapped a hand, “not actual shell shock, but whatever you’d call it.”

 

DeBryn looked carefully at Morse, then back at Thursday. “If Morse has no wish to speak with me of the events that occurred, then I don’t see that it’s any of my business.”

 

The sound of Thursday spluttering was immensely satisfying. The look on DeBryn’s face, as calm as ever, infinitely reassuring. And Morse realised that DeBryn was his friend, was  _his_ friend first and Thursday’s second.

 

“I imagine that any such thing might take some time to come to terms with,” DeBryn added. “And certainly I am always happy to listen if I am needed.”

 

“Thank you,” Morse said into the resulting quiet, and Thursday huffed but subsided.

 

\-----------------------

 

The problem was, Morse reflected a couple of days later, that Thursday was probably right. The sound of a car door slamming. A mug dropped in the kitchen. At every loud noise he jerked, heart pounding and eyes wide; every few minutes he found himself scanning the room just in case… something. It hadn’t been that bad in the couple of weeks after the actual shooting, but now it had somehow flared and he couldn’t stop doing it.

 

It was bad enough that Thursday had noticed it; what if someone else did too? What if they judged him unfit to return to work? Secretly, his fear was that Thursday thought that too; thought that Morse might be a liability now. What if he froze in a crisis?

 

Things could have gone badly, the day Kasper had come to the house. Morse had reacted to the gunshot then too, and only sheer luck had carried them through. He didn’t think Thursday had noticed, then. He didn’t think Thursday realised how close Morse had come to being useless and getting Joan shot. Then again, Thursday was still so wrapped up in guilt over his own reaction at the time that he probably wouldn’t look beyond it.

 

Still, what could Morse do?

 

Thursday’s long, careful looks had grown more abundant and more concerned – even when Morse wasn’t doing anything. And he’d been living practically on top of Morse over the weekend, seeing every tiny reaction that Morse had to anything. Morse had had enough problems in the past with people judging him ‘unstable’ or ‘unfit.’ He couldn’t bear it if Thursday saw him that way now.

 

There had been a diagnosis of some form of trauma in his past, of course, after Susan, although in reality that had been a lot more complicated and didn’t fit in any neat boxes. But he remembered, a little, the things that they had said about it.

 

Mostly, they had said it would go away with time.

 

“It has only been a few weeks since you had an encounter with a bullet, Morse,” DeBryn said when Morse met him at the pub on Monday evening. Thursday had driven Morse, and was coming to pick him up in an hour and a half.

 

DeBryn had bought a round without any comment that Morse shouldn’t be drinking, and Morse had sunk down into the frayed cushion of the bench against the wall and haltingly confessed that Thursday was right.

 

“But there’s no reason for it,” Morse said in frustration. “It’s not logical.”

 

“Frequently the brain isn’t,” DeBryn said wryly.

 

Morse took a couple of long pulls of his drink, wiped foam from the corner of his mouth with his thumb.

 

“I just want it to stop,” he said at last. “Thursday keeps looking at me like I’m going to break.”

 

“I’m sure he’s just concerned about you.”

 

Morse snorted. “He’s still finding it hard to let me out of his sight. Now that he’s back at work it’s – I don’t know. He rang me every half hour, and came home at lunch.”

 

DeBryn blinked, surprised. “I didn’t realise there was a problem.”

 

Immediately Morse felt guilty. “Not a problem,” he said. “Just… difficult.”

 

“Hmm, interesting. You’re suggesting he is also suffering the same thing?”

 

“What?” Morse stared at DeBryn, nonplussed. “No. I mean – I think it’s the bond.”

 

DeBryn leaned back in his chair and took a moment to adjust his glasses. “You know, not everything has to be the bond, Morse. It could also be a perfectly rational response to seeing you held at gun point and shot at not long after you’d been seriously injured.”

 

Morse opened his mouth to refute this, and then shut it again. Ever since the incident with Vince Kasper, Thursday had seemed terrified of losing him. That was, as DeBryn said, easily rationalised. But the pressing need for contact – the look of intense relief and lassitude which slid over Thursday’s face every time he reached out to touch Morse or hold him close – that was the bond.

 

“No,” he said after a moment. “In this case you’ll have to forgive my claiming the greater experience. While there may also be truth in what you say, while it may even be the reason behind it, his behaviour itself is definitely due to the bond.”

 

DeBryn gave a small shrug and tipped his glass towards Morse to concede the point.

 

“Thursday said there was no shame in it,” Morse said abruptly. “With me, that is.” DeBryn nodded to show he understood. “A delayed reaction, he said. Shock.” Because Thursday had tried again over the weekend to bring it up, to give Morse examples of people he’d known. “But-“ and here Morse paused, gathered his thoughts. “There is shame, I think,” he said more slowly. “In - in being unable to control my actions. If people at work – Bright or Jakes – were to see me… they would think less of me.” He punctuated this with a gulp of his pint, and then avoided DeBryn’s gaze.

 

“Perhaps that is the worst thing about this sort of trauma; the loss of control,” DeBryn replied after a moment. “One cannot judge how each individual would react to knowing about it – you’re right of course, that many people would not understand.”

 

Morse’s mouth formed a thin line, and he leaned forward onto his forearms and stared hard at the table.  _Weak_ , he heard his father’s voice saying.

 

“But you may be doing your colleagues a disservice. I found, after I came back from the war-“ and there was a long pause, as though DeBryn was struggling for words the same way that Morse sometimes did “-I found that… No. Hmm. That… people didn’t know what to do about it, but many of them at least understood the problem. And I was far more irascible than you.” He paused. “On the other hand, the medical establishment may have a different view of such things than the Oxford constabulary.”

 

“What if they think I can’t do my job?” Morse said quietly, and DeBryn said nothing in reply. But then of course DeBryn had been unable to do his, had had to change careers. “Sorry, that was-“

 

“Give it some time, Morse,” DeBryn said kindly. “I’d say it might help to talk about it, but…” His eyes assessed Morse with the same incisive gaze he turned on the rest of the world. “Somehow I doubt you’d listen.”

 

Morse grimaced, and finished his drink.

 

\-------------------

 

The worry of it was enough to drive him forward in other ways. He met with Lorimer again, at his office this time.

 

“Ah, Morse, good to see you! I was shocked when you said you’d been injured – all in a day’s work for our noble police officers though I suppose!”

 

Morse didn’t quite manage to smile, and slid into the seat across from the professor’s desk with a surreal sense of deja-vu.

 

“You were last here, what, five years ago? Six?” Lorimer asked, mind on the same track.

 

Half a year ago Morse would have been able to pinpoint it down to almost the day, though admittedly he’d lost track a bit in the morass of time after Susan had left him.

 

Now, “Yes,” he said simply.

 

“A long time.” Lorimer laughed, and rocked back in his chair a little. “Too long! I haven’t seen many of your calibre come through since.”

 

This time Morse’s smile was false, and he wished Lorimer wasn’t such a stickler for the pleasantries. “Oh, I very much doubt that,” he said.

 

“You’ve come to speak about the possibility of continuing your studies, I assume?”

 

Morse nodded.

 

“Yes, yes, I assumed as much when you phoned. I’m sorry that we couldn’t meet sooner, though of course I understand.” He waved in the direction of Morse’s body, obviously unsure of where he’d been shot. “Well, I was talking to a friend of mine from St Jude’s the other day at a dinner, and happened to mention you. Explained your circumstances, as it were, but told him what an excellent student you’d been. Told him you could practically skip the exams and be awarded your degree right now.”

 

Lorimer laughed at his own wit. Morse could barely manage a strained smile.

 

“He’ll want to meet with you, of course, but my recommendation carries a lot of weight.”

 

There was a pregnant pause - one of those awkward moments where Morse was sure there was something he was expected to say but unsure of what it was.

 

“And if you were to apply for a scholarship I’d be very happy to speak on your behalf. Shall I arrange a meeting between the two of you then?”

 

What had previously been exploring his options suddenly seemed a very black or white decision, as though Lorimer was pressuring him to decide his future right now.

 

“Yes,” Morse said. “It would be useful to meet and talk with him about how things might work.”

 

“Ah, whether you need to repeat your previous years, you mean? I imagine he’ll quiz you a little.” Lorimer leaned forward confidentially. “Better brush up on your classical literature, hmm?”

 

Morse gave another tight smile, and tried to remember if the man had been this tiresome while he was a student. Perhaps he just hadn’t been paying attention, or perhaps he’d been too young and naïve to realise.

 

“Thank you,” he said, and moved to stand. Lorimer belatedly half rose from his seat, as though thinking Morse might need support, before catching himself and straightening the papers on his desk with a half-hearted cough.

 

“Let me know how it all goes, won’t you?” The professor shook Morse’s hand. “It’ll be a real shame not to have you under my wing. Destined for great things!” he added as Morse walked away.

 

\--------------

 

“It’s still strange,” Win said to Morse as they met for lunch the following week. “I’m not quite a guest anymore, but I’m not…” She paused to find a word. “Responsible. There’s no one depending on me to get everything ready; no expectation that I’ll take care of everything. I have so much  _time_  for things.” She said it as though it was a revelation. “I’d forgotten what that was like.”

 

Morse smiled into his glass.

 

“Don’t laugh at me,” she scolded. “I suppose this is what it would have been like anyway, after Sam and Joan left, but…”

 

“Strange,” he supplied after a moment.

 

“Yes,” she sighed. “I’m half afraid to get used to it.”

 

Morse thought about the house at the moment. They had cobbled together meals in the evening, a slap dash attempt at getting through all of the laundry every weekend, and the three of them and Sam exerted themselves to clean the house before Win came round for lunch or dinner on Sunday.

 

It was nothing, compared to the way she had used to run the house. But it worked well enough. They could keep doing it after she returned, if she didn’t mind it. Make sure that she still got some time to herself.

 

“So what have you been doing?” he asked.

 

“Well, I’ve finished a new jumper for Sam – not that he’ll need it until the autumn now. I’ve been doing a lot of baking – things to take along to church, and for the fete last week.” She hesitated, and then, cautiously, as though she expected him to mock her, “I’ve started doing some reading. Not your sort of thing, of course, but…”

 

Morse smiled at her. “What have you been reading?”

 

She smoothed the edge of the tablecloth for a moment, and then met his eyes with her own bright ones. “Jane Austen?” He nodded to show he knew the author. “There’s a book called Persuasion by her, I’ve finished that now. And I’ve just started something by someone else; Little Women. I remember it being mentioned at school, but I don’t think I was paying attention.”

 

“There’s something about reading,” Morse said after a moment. “When the rest of the world just goes away.”

 

“And it’s as though you’re in a little one of your own,” she said with a small smile. “My sister used to read a lot, when we were younger – she’s still got quite a collection. I was never really one for it; I liked to be doing things. But somehow I like it now. I like the quiet.”

 

\----------------------

 

Three weeks were up, and the doctor looked at him again. “It’s healing nicely enough,” the doctor said. “Have you been resting?”

 

“Yes,” Morse said, and Thursday snorted beside him but then shrugged when the doctor looked his way.

 

He was cleared to go to work – limited duties – and the next morning entered Bright’s office to Thursday’s, “No, that’s unacceptable. After recent trauma-“ and here Thursday looked up, registered Morse, waved a hand to tell him to shut the door “-the bond is unstable. He’s not going to another station, not for any reason; he’s staying here!”

 

Bright looked coolly at Thursday from behind his desk, and Morse shifted from one foot to the other by the door. “Are you presuming to tell me how to run my station, Thursday?”

 

“I’m presuming to tell you the state of your men, which any medical doctor would back me up on.”

 

Morse… wasn’t actually sure about that. The bond was establishing itself nicely, as far as he was aware – Thursday’s recent (and to some degree continuing) wobble aside. Much better than it had been before. But being sent away…

 

“What’s going on?” he asked warily.

 

Bright closed his eyes for a moment, let out a sigh. Thursday let out a small noise of disgust and turned away from the chief super.

 

“Morse,” Bright started. “My sympathies for the loss of your father. The doctor tells me that your wound is healing well?”

 

“Yes, sir,” Morse said stonily.

 

“We were… wondering how best to utilise your talents over the next month or so, Morse, while you recover.”

 

Morse looked at Bright, looked at Thursday, looked at Bright again. “And how would that be, sir?”

 

A moment’s hesitation, then, “County has been asking for a file clerk. They need someone to help organise the…” he trailed off in the face of Morse’s stare.

 

“There’s plenty of work to do on the files here, sir.”

 

“There isn’t enough work for a full position on limited duties here, Morse.”

 

“Most of the lad’s job at the moment is doing that anyway – sorting out reports and filing and making calls. So I think there’s plenty of work. Sir.”

 

Bright’s face grew pinched. “Thursday, you know that we’re trying to cut back on-“

 

“Morse was shot in the line of duty,” Thursday stated coldly. “Right after saving my life. In the case before that, he saved my life too, and a little girl’s. And in the case before that-“

 

“ _Enough_ , Thursday,” Bright snapped. “It’s not as though-“

 

“What’s this really about?” Morse asked suddenly, and they both turned to look at him. “You wouldn’t be paying out any more than before, and Inspector Thursday’s right, sir, I’d be doing much the same work as the last while you’ve had me on general duties.” His tone slightly accusatory, there. “So I don’t see what difference it would make to the station, to you, at all?”

 

Silence. Thursday watching Bright carefully now; Morse suddenly aware that he might have said too much.

 

Eventually Bright stood up, took three quick paces one way, and then back again. “You officially registered for leave a few months back,” he said. “You submitted a medical report in order to do so. It was registered. My superiors have recently made it clear that they are… unhappy at the prospect of the two of you serving in the same unit.”

 

“Bollocks,” said Thursday, as fear bloomed in Morse’s chest.

 

“What can they do though, sir?” Morse asked.

 

“They’ve ordered me to separate you. I… don’t know what my opinion is of the two of you being here. It doesn’t seem to have affected your work, but…” He pursed his lips. “Once the order came through – if you had passed your Sergeant’s exam, Morse, that would have been a chance for you to look for a new position elsewhere. As it is, despite the circumstances, I am forced to take this opportunity to find you another placement – temporarily at the moment, though if they offer to keep you on…”

 

“But, sir,” Thursday said.

 

“Submit all the reports you want, Thursday. Unfortunately, in this case I fear they would only be used against you.”

 

“That’s not right!” Thursday said strongly.

 

“My hands are tied, Thursday. What would you have me do?”

 

“Fight it!” Thursday said angrily. “Bloody bureaucracy. Do  _something_! Did you even try telling them that it hasn’t caused a problem with our work – show them our case solve rate?”

 

Bright’s eyes were slightly pitying, and he said nothing.

 

“What the hell were you thinking-?“

 

“You’ll have my letter of resignation in the morning,” Morse said, and once the words were out he  _meant_ them.  Thursday and Bright turned to him in shock. He repeated, “I’ll give you my resignation in the morning.”

 

Morse had put up with months of being a glorified errand boy because he’d thought it would be worth it - to get past that, to have something good again. Something  _here_. Now he knew that would never happen. Even with no certainty of anything else, even with needing the money to send to his sister…

 

“Please excuse me,” he said, and heard Thursday’s outraged growl as he let the door swing shut behind him.

 

\---------------

 

Thursday found him in the alley out the back entrance.

 

“You should be sitting down,” Thursday said with a sigh. “You’re trying to do too much at once.” Then, “I’m sorry, lad. We could try to fight it?”

 

“What’s the point?” Morse examined his shoes, found them in need of polish. “If he’s against us too. And maybe he’s right – my work’s been shoddy, the last couple of months. I’ve been distracted. I should have figured out that it was Mrs Coke-Norris sooner.”

 

Thursday laid a hand on his shoulder. “Better than most, lad, and with better reason to be off your game. And that we can fix. Are fixing. And even with that you cracked a couple of big cases. Don’t undersell yourself.”

 

“Hmm.”

 

“What were you going to do?” Thursday asked after a moment. “Back when I first met you, when you wanted to resign?”

 

“Oh? Umm.” Morse cast his mind back to that blank, painful time. “I was going to apply for something with the Government. When I left my work in signals they gave me a number to call – said if I ever…”

 

“Did they?”

 

Morse nodded. “I might have still a mess back then but I was good with puzzles. Codes.”

 

“Something to think about,” Thursday said.

 

“Yes, it is.”

 

  
\--------------------

 

“So, how was it then,” Joan asked on Saturday. “Your meeting with what’s-his-name?”

 

“Professor Cartridge,” Morse said, as he spooned peas onto his plate.

 

“You’ve been quiet about it,” she prompted when he said nothing more.

 

Sam looked up from his plate. “This about you going back to bury yourself in books again? Mum said something a while back.”

 

Sam had arrived on the morning train; back for the weekend with a large bag of washing and an equally large appetite.

 

Morse put his cutlery down. “I’ve left the police, Sam.”

 

Sam stared, fork poised an inch away from his mouth.

 

Thursday cleared his throat. “The higher ups wouldn’t let Morse and I work together any more. Were blocking his chances for promotion at the station. And Morse didn’t want to move away, so…”

 

Sam’s eyes snapped back to Morse. “So what will you do?” he asked, bemused  - and of course he’d only ever known Morse as a policeman. And while he knew Morse had had a life before that, Morse didn’t exactly talk about his time at university much.

 

Morse hesitated. “I’m not quite sure, yet. The professor said they’d be happy to take me on, though the scholarship isn’t a sure thing yet.”

 

“You must have impressed him then,” Thursday said gruffly.

 

It had been more of a chat than a test, the day before. Cartridge had quoted from texts and expected Morse to be able to continue them. Had asked his opinion about various literary works and made him defend it. The conversation had devolved into a good natured debate over the worth of the study of ancient languages in the modern world, and at several points Morse rather felt that the professor had forgotten Morse was there to be interviewed.

 

It had been… pleasurable.

 

“Yes,” Morse said honestly.

 

Thursday snorted. “No false modesty with you, is there?”

 

Morse looked at him blankly for a minute, and saw Joan’s amused smile.

 

“How’s it going at the camp?” he asked Sam, and everyone’s attention was diverted.

 

\--------------------

 

After lunch Sam reluctantly agreed to go and help Morse in the garden for a bit, since he was there.

 

“The thing is,” Sam said, burying a towel in the ground with an aggrieved motion, “I’m not really sure I…”

 

He dug a few more holes for the pansies.  

 

“I mean, I wasn’t lying. I do like it there, and most of the lads are alright.” Morse nodded, even though Sam didn’t look up to see it.  “And what they’re doing – the training. I could do that. I’d be alright at it, I reckon.”

 

There was a ‘but’ in there somewhere. Morse waited it out.

 

“But I’m…” Sam trailed off and raised a hand to scrub at the back of his neck; Morse eyed the resulting smear of earth with amusement. “I’m not sure I…”

 

Trowel back in, and this time Sam flung the soil that he scooped out far enough away that it hit the bottom of the fence. They both contemplated it for a moment.

 

“Still,” Sam said, “I have to now, don’t I? Can’t come back now.”

 

Morse considered his next words very carefully. “What made you think of the army in the first place?”

 

Sam shrugged. “Dad, mainly.” Morse looked askance at him. “Oh, I don’t mean he wanted me to go. I mean – he was in the war, right? Fought for his country. And he-” Morse handed him a pansy, carefully teased apart from its neighbour “-doesn’t talk about it much, but he used to sometimes say the places he’d been, and the friends he had. And John said that joining the army makes you a man.”

 

John was one of Sam’s friends from football. “Did he?”

 

Sam nodded. His fingers carefully patted earth around the newly planted flower, and Morse tried to imagine those same fingers holding a gun; Sam’s too-young face mud-streaked under a helmet.

 

“We were going to join together,” Sam continued. “But his birthday’s before mine, and I didn’t-“  _Want to get left behind_.

 

“Why do you think your father doesn’t talk about it?”

 

Sam glanced at him. “I dunno. Probably didn’t want me to like the idea. I know they’re worried I’ll get killed; I’m not  _stupid_. But I’ll be careful.”

 

Morse had never really thought about fighting in the army proper; the idea of blindly following orders to kill as anathema to him as burning books. There was, however, something about the idea of fighting nobly for one’s country, dying for it - of forging bonds of steel with your compatriots - which throughout history had called to men’s souls. Particularly to the soul of a seventeen year old.

 

Words came to his lips unbidden.

 

“What evil luck soever

For me remains in store,

‘Tis sure much finer fellows

Have fared much worse before.

 

So here are things to think on

That ought to make me brave,

As I strap on for fighting

My sword that will not save.”

 

Sam waited quietly until he was finished, brushing earth through his fingertips. “What’s that from then?”

 

“Housman.”

 

“You know the weirdest things.”

 

Morse waited another moment, then, “You know he’s proud of you either way?”

 

Sam’s hands went still.

 

“Even though he had reason to fight, even though it’s made him who he is today, he would never want anyone else to go through that. Especially not you. But he’ll try to understand, if it’s what you really want.”

 

Another minute passed, and then Sam resumed his work, and they didn’t speak on it further.

 

\------------------

 

“Which college is it?” DeBryn asked.

 

Morse took a sip of his pint. “St Jude’s.”

 

“Mmm, had a body there last year.”

 

“Before my time,” said Morse, though it was possible he hadn’t been called out for it.

 

“You’ve decided then?”

 

“I think so. I’ve missed it. I was worried about paying the fees, but I got a letter this morning – I’ve been awarded a scholarship. It’ll include money towards food and lodging, and Thursday has said I can send that on to my sister.”

 

DeBryn raised his glass. “Well then. On to better things!”

 

 Morse tipped his glass a little, and DeBryn’s gaze grew curious. “Forgive my saying so, but you don’t seem entirely enthused.”

 

Propping his head on his hand, Morse contemplated the ringed stains left on the table by previous drinkers. “It feels wrong,” he said slowly, feeling each word out as he spoke it. “Leaving the police like this. I’d made up my mind that was where I was going to stay. I feel like everything’s changing too quickly, and I’m still scrambling to catch up.”

 

DeBryn considered this. “On the other hand, sometimes change can be a good thing. You told me you ended up in the force by happenstance; that it wasn’t what you would have picked for yourself.”

 

They drank for a few minutes in silence.

 

“Do you like being a pathologist?” Morse asked. It was a question which had been idling in his mind ever since he’d heard about DeBryn’s career change.

 

“Rather than a doctor, you mean? Hmm. Yes and no. I’ve got used to it. Someone needs to do it, and I pride myself on thinking I do a better job than most. It’s quiet. And the dead always appreciate my sense of humour.”

 

Most people, thought Morse, probably didn’t worry overmuch about whether they liked their jobs. A job was a job, and they just got on with it.

 

“I’d much rather open an antique bookstore, and then refuse to sell any of my books,” DeBryn said, and Morse blinked at him in surprise.

 

“I’d rather…” Morse considered what he enjoyed most in the world for a moment. “Go back to university, actually.”

 

“Well then.” DeBryn raised his glass again, and this time Morse’s rose to meet it.

 

\------------------

 

Morse got a job editing manuscripts for the summer, through an old university friend. The money wasn’t bad, although some of the things he had to wade through were atrocious. He could carry it on, at a slower pace, if he wanted the extra money after term started.

 

The end of July was marked by Win coming back to live with them, having been away for three months. Her return was wonderful and incredibly awkward all at once. Morse had been meeting up with her at least twice a week in addition to their Sunday dinners, but having her there properly threw him back into the same state of anxious withdrawal that he’d been in all those months ago.

 

They’d talked about it extensively before she came back, the three of them, and now Thursday was having none of it. As if to compensate for Morse trying to pull away, he was constantly in Morse’s space; a hand on the back of his neck or cupping an elbow, or just leaning into him on the sofa. All of those motions were familiar now, and Morse accepted them without thinking before a sudden tensing of guilt and fear swept over him.

 

After two days Win cornered him in the kitchen, crossing her arms and giving him her most insistent look. “Right then,” she said. “Out with it.”

 

Morse gave her a stubborn look, and she sighed.

 

“We talked about this last Sunday,” she said.

 

His eyes examined the grouting between the kitchen tiles. “I know,” he said.

 

“And we all agreed how it was going to work,” she persisted. “That you two would just go on being yourselves, and that I’d be fine.”

 

“Mmhmm,” he said unhappily.

 

“Love. Look at me.” She reached out and laid a hand on his arm. Finally he met her eyes. “There. I’d not have come back if I didn’t think it would be alright, Endeavour. I was fine at my sister’s – and she’d have had me. Yes, I missed you all, but I could have just kept coming round a few times a week. I came back because I decided it wasn’t a problem for me, seeing you two together.”

 

His mouth twisted into an anxious line, but he nodded.

 

“But that’s me. If it’s a problem for you, me being here, then I can do what I said. No, I’m not trying to make you feel guilty, love, don’t be silly.” She squeezed his arm a little. “How’s the bond, anyway?”

 

He swallowed. “Good.” Sighed, ran a hand through his hair. “Very good. It finally settled properly a couple of weeks ago, it doesn’t feel so… taut, now.”

 

“I’m glad.” She smiled. “It’s only been two days, and I’m not expecting you to get used to me being here again all at once. But…” She hesitated. “I can see how it hurts him, when you pull away. How guilty he feels. There’s been enough of that, I think. And it doesn’t need to be like that; it doesn’t.” There was a brief pause, then, “I’d like us all to be a family again.”

 

He looked at her and gave a quick nod, because in the end who was he to judge her needs and happiness? Yes, they’d all lied to each other about their feelings in this, but Win had been the most honest with him, and she deserved his trust.

 

“Sam’ll be back soon,” he said a minute later.

 

“Yes,” she said, and her voice was all  _relief_ and  _thank God_. “I thought for sure he’d… Well. I suppose we’ll see.”

 

Sam had confided to Morse again a while back that he still might want to join the army, but not yet. He seemed to have lost his hurry for it. He’d only told Thursday and Win a week ago, and Thursday’s choked, “Well, we’ll be glad to have you back,” had been accompanied by an awkward hug between father and son which had caused Joan to smile and Win to tear up.

 

“Maybe the experience was good for him,” Morse said.

 

“He’s not usually one to change his mind once he’s made it up. We’ll see.”

 

There had been a reshuffle of rooms over the last couple of weeks. Sam got to keep his, since he was coming back. Win’s old sewing room had been turned into a real bedroom; redecorated and dressed with a chest of drawers bedside table and a proper bed. Joan was in there now, since she was planning to move out in September. Win was in Joan’s old room, and had already made the space her own.

 

She was so much more adaptable than Morse, he thought again, which was strange because it was never what he would have thought of her when he first knew her.

 

“You’ll be alright?” she asked as he poured himself a glass of water.

 

He answered with a slightly strained smile, and thought that even if they reached some new equilibrium now, things were bound to get interesting once Sam returned. He couldn’t imagine Sam taking this lying down, no matter how accepting the boy had seemed at the weekends of late.

 

“You’re worrying again,” she said with a sigh. “Then again, I’ve never seen you  _not_  worrying.”

 

\-------------------

 

Joan, when she took him aside later, was much more frank.

 

“Stop it,” she said. “You’re making everyone uncomfortable.”

 

He gave her a wry look, and she punched him lightly on the upper arm.

 

“Shut up,” she said, and it made him smile because she would have never spoken like that in front of her parents. “We’ve all got used to you and Dad. It’s embarrassing sometimes, you two being all lovey dovey,” and here she pulled a face at him, “but it’s fine. I don’t mind. Mum said she thinks it’s sweet.”

 

The mind boggled.

 

“And Sam?” he asked before he could censor himself.

 

She pulled another face. “Well, he’s a boy, isn’t he? He thinks it’s even more embarrassing than I do.”

 

Morse remembered Sam throwing a cushion at them in the living room one time that Morse had unthinkingly turned to kiss Thursday while Sam was in the room.

 

“But he doesn’t… None of us get upset by it. And we know you need to do it.”

 

They didn’t need to as much anymore, of course, now that the bond was calming a bit, but it had become habit. Why would you stop doing something which felt so good? And with them there was the risk that if they didn’t maintain enough of it, it could destabilize the bond again.

 

“I just assumed-“

 

“Well don’t.” She gave a smile to soften her words. “We all know what happens when you assume things.”

 

“What, like when I assumed you liked that bloke from the bank. Ronnie, wasn’t it?”

 

“Shut up,” she said, but she blushed bright red.

 

Morse rather thought things might be becoming serious between them. She’d thought Ronnie was a bit of a wet-blanket before, and their one original date had been a bit of a disaster, but he’d gradually won her over with his steadiness and the fact that he clearly adored her.

 

“Autumn weddings are nice, I hear,” Morse mused, and got an outraged noise and a mock-slap on his shoulder in return.

 

“I’ve only even gone out with him a couple of times,” she said defensively. True enough, but she’d told Morse about all the times Ronnie came to chat with her during the day; all the times that they ended up talking when everyone went for drinks together.

 

“Mmm,” said Morse. “Very nice roses after the last time, too.”

 

She hissed at him to stop, but she was laughing and her eyes sparkled. She was more happy in that moment than he thought he’d ever seen her, and if Ronnie was the one making her feel like that then Morse was all for the match.

 

“I’ll have to meet him at some point, of course,” he added. “I mean, your dad can flash his badge and look intimidating, but imagine the comments I could make about knowing exactly how to murder someone and being outside the law.”

 

“No,” she yelped, still laughing. “Promise me you won’t.”

 

He shook his head. “I’m afraid,” he said, affecting seriousness, “it’s a familial duty.”

 

\--------------

 

“Heard all of that,” Thursday said to him, after. At Morse’s look, “Well, you two weren’t exactly keeping your voices down in there.”

 

Morse sat himself down on the sofa next to Thursday and sprawled slightly until they were touching knee to shoulder.

 

“Family duty, is it?” Thursday said, and it took Morse a moment to think back to what he’d said.

 

“Yes,” he said simply.

 

Thursday turned to press a kiss against the side of Morse’s head. “Good.”

 

\----------------------

 

The End

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it just decided to stop there, so I'm calling it done. Thanks to everyone who left such lovely reviews while I was writing this!


End file.
